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Maybell Laboratories, 4305-38 Grand Blvd., Chicago

VOL. I

SEPTEMBER, 1920

No. 6

A MA«AZINE OF MYSTERY. ROMANCE AND ADVENTURE

Contents

BLACK SHADOWS (complete novelette)

. J. C. Kofoed . . .

THE CHOICE

Eugene Guillaume .

THE LONG ARM OF GOD ....

Ward Sterling . . . .

PLANNED BY THE STARS ....

FINGERS FROM THE GRAVE . . .

Edwin Carty Ranck . .

THE DEVILTRY OF DR. WAUGH .

Christopher B. Booth

DAUGHTER OF THE PIGEON . .

Harry C. Hervey, Jr. .

THE HEART ON THE MANTEL .

Paul Everman .

THE DEVIL TAKES A HAND . . .

Ward Sterling . . . .

THE STRANGE CASE OF

NATHANIEL BROOME ....

Charles McDonell . .

THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT DIE ,

Harold Ward . . . .

THE YELLOW DOG

Eric A. Darling . . .

111

BULLING THE BULLS

Walter Scott Story . .

121

THE BEST NEW MYSTERY BOOKS

Capt. Frank Cunningham

127

F. M. OSBORNE. Editor

A. W. SUTTON. Pr«id«nt J. W. GLENISTER. Vice-President .nd Circulation Director

F. W. WEST LAKE. Secretory .nd Treuurer
"The entire contents of tKis mafiaxina is protected by copyright and must not be reprinted.

iuued monthly by

PRO-DISTRIBUTORS PUBLISHING COMPANY. Inc.

25 Wen 45th Street, New York, New York

YEARLY SUBSCRIPTION $2.00 SINGLE COPIES 20 CENTS

We«tom Advertising Office, Westminster Building, Oiicojo, III.

Pro- Distributors Publishing Company, Inc. Post Office at New York, N. Y., under act of March }, 1870

Black Shadows

(A Complete Novelette)
By J. G. Kofoed

CHAPTER I

THE limousine drew up beside the
curb. A correctly garbed chauf-
feur leaped from his seat, opened
the door, and stood stiffly at at-
tention as J. Sylvester Jones stepped
out. Jones was garbed in a manner
that should have made the lilies of the
field blush with shame at their shabbi-
ness. From thirty-dollar hat to forty-
dollar shoes he was impeccable.

"You may wait, Hawker," he said, in
a tone that meant, "Hawker, I gracious-
ly give you permission to continue liv-
ing."

He separated a key from the others
on his ring, and languidly ascended the
steps of Strickland Guerney's ornate
house. It was coming on to dusk, and
the great hall was almost dark. Jones
switched on the light and looked about
curiously.

"Bradley," he called.

A round shouldered, misty eyed little
butler came pattering from somewhere
in the rear of the house.

"I am astonished at this carelessness,
Bradley," reproved Jones. "Where are
the servants?"

"Ah, Mr. Sylvester, sir, I'm glad
you've come." The old butler pointed
a skinny, shaking hand toward the ceil-
ing. "Something's wrong, Mr. Sylves-
ter; I know it in my bones."

"Wrong? What could, be wrong?"

"This morning your uncle told all the
servants to take the day off. I was
feeling rather badly, sir, and I retired

to my room, where I stayed until noon.
I went to his study then, and knocked,
but he would not answer. Later I tried
the door two or three times, but could
get no response."

"Nonsense," said Jones sharply.
"What could be wrong? You're too
old to display the nerves of a Chest-
nut Street flapper, Bradley. I'll go
upstairs with you, and we'll rouse
up the old curmudgeon. Probably
he went to sleep counting his bank-
books."

Together they ascended the wide,
oak balustraded stairs. There was a
heaviness in the atmosphere ; a gloom
that permeated everything. The butler
shivered. Jones' eyes grew hard.
There was no evidence of anything out
of the ordinary, but both knew that
something was wrong.

The door to Strickland Guerney's
study fronted the wide stairway. It
was a huge affair of age-blackened oak
thai had been imported from a chateau
in Normandy. Jones rapped several
times, and called his uncle's name.
There was no answer.

"I told you, sir," quavered Bradley.

The younger man stooped and ap-
plied his eye to the key-hole.

A limited segment of the room
sprang into view; the rows of book-
cases against the walls, the untidy table,
and the great carved chair that Strick-
land Guerney used. But it was none
of these things that caused J. Sylvester
Jones to straighten up, with a little
sucking in of his breath.

Black Shadows

"Wait here, Bradley," he instructed.
"I'll be back in a moment."

He clattered downstairs, and flung
open the door to the street.

"Hawker."

The chauffeur — an old-young man,
with a sharp profile and blood-shot eyes
— sprang to attention.

"Yes, sir?"

"Drive like the devil to the police-
station, and bring some officers here at
once. Better have one who knows
something about locks. We can't batter
this door down."

When the limousine had roared up
the street, Jones slowly re-climbed the
stairs. Bradley was fussing nervously
about the hall, straightening chairs and
pictures that, were already in mathe-
matically accurate positions.

"It's dreadful, sir," sighed the old
butler. "I peeped through the keyhole,
sir. I could just see the top of his
head, slewed around at a most peculiar
angle — and it never moves, sir."

"Do you — do you think he might
have done himself an injury?" Jones
asked.

"If injury's been done he has done
it himself. You know the study, sir...
There are no windows, in the regular
sense; only those iron barred transoms
near the ceiling, and no living thing
could get through them. And this door,
sir — there was only one key, and that
Mr. Guerney carried on his watch-
chain—"

The tramp of heavy feet sounded in
the hallway below. Jones called anx-
iously, and a portentous file ascended
the steps. First came Lieutenant Jamie-
son, then District Detective OToole, ■
Patrolman Bierhalter and finally a
5"ry, grey-eyed irresistible, known to
all the city as Johnny Suggs, son of
the owner of the Evening Star.
Hawker edged furtively on the edge of
the procession.

"Well," asked the lieutenant heavily,

"what's the trouble here?" He seemed
somewhat awed by Jones' wonderful
sartorial display, and Suggs added to it
by informing him in a whisper that J.
Sylvester was the nephew of old mil-
lionaire Guerney.

Jones said, "I'm afraid something
has happened to my uncle. I thought
it best to call the police immediately."

"You did right, Mister Jones," com-
mented the lieutenant. He laid his
hand on the knob of the study door,
and rattled it — with no results, natu-
rally. "You couldn't break 'down this
door without a tank. Hey, Bierhalter,
get busy on the lock."

"Wait a minute," cut in the reporter,
whipping out a magnifying glass.
"What do you say if we look this over
first, loot? Nobody's monkeyed with
the lock. It has been opened and shut
with a key, all right."

Jamieson, who prided himself on
looking after the fine points of every
case, flushed because he had not thought
of that himself. With extraordinary
gruffness he ordered Bierhalter to "get
busy." It required ten minutes of con-
centrated effort on the policeman's part
before he flung open the door.

There was the stuffiness of decay in
the chamber — the nameless, creeping
horror that is always present when
death comes by violence. Solemnly the
little party crossed the room and looked
at the figure in the carved chair.

It was that of a man of sixty, big
paunched and heavy lipped. Strickland
Guerney had been known as a con-
noiseur in all that pertained to the appe-
tites, and his face was that of a gour-
mand. There was a half snarl on his
face, and a revolver lay on the floor
below the drooping fingers of the right
hand. His left fist rested on the table
edge, and gripped the study-key. The
fine silk of his shirt front was caked
with dried blood.

Jamieson, his pique forgotten mo-

Black Shadows

mentarily, was once more the calloused
police official. He touched Guerney's
pasty cheek, lifted the right arm,
dropped it heavily, and crinkled the
blood clotted shirt between his fingers.

"I ain't no doctor, but I can see this
man's been dead at least three hours.
Say, what do you know about this?"
He turned suddenly on the trembling
Bradley.

"N-nothing, sir, except what I told
Mr. Sylvester, sir."

"What was that?"

"This morning master gave the serv-
ants a holiday, but I stayed in my room
because I wasn't feeling well. At noon
I knocked on his door to find out if
he required lunch, and he told me to
go to the devil, quite harshly, sir. That
was the last time I heard him speak.
Twice afterward I knocked, but re-
ceived no answer. Then Mr. Sylvester
came, and he sent for you. There is
only one key to the study, sir, and —
and Mr. Guerney has that in his hand."

"How is it you didn't hear the shot?"

"My room is downstairs, and there
were several closed doors between."

The lieutenant grunted, and then
looked at Jones. "Can you add any-
thing to that?"

"Nothing of value, I'm afraid. My
uncle and I were on the best of terms.
I usually called on him twice a week —
Monday and Friday — "

"This is Thursday," Jamieson shot
out.

"I know it," retorted Jones, with
some asperity. "I had intended leaving
for New Haven tomorrow, and I
wanted to see Uncle Strickland before
I left. What are you trying to do —
shoulder the crime on to me?'\

The lieutenant hastily denied that
any such idea had been in his mind.

"But we gotta clear up every point,
you see. Now, where did you spend
your time this afternoon?"

"I left the Hotel St. Regis, where I

have my apartments, at one o'clock,
and drove through the park until two-
fifteen — yes, I'm sure it was two-fif-
teen, for I had an appointment with
Miss Daisy Graelis, of the Bohemian
Follies, at two-thirty. We went to the
Ambassadeurs and danced until four,
when I escorted Miss Graelis home.
It was after five when I left her, and
I came directly here. That accounts
for every minute of my time."

"I guess it's all right," said Jamieson.
He drew his detective aside, and ques-
tioned him in a whisper.

"There ain't nothin' to it at all,"
snorted O'Toole. "It's a dead opeii-
an'-shut case o' suicide. There's a
thirty-eight calibre gun, with one car-
tridge fired. The door was locked an'
no way o' getting into the place
without a keg of dynamite. Why,
Loot, this is the easiest thing I ever
see."

Jamieson sighed with relief. "You're
right, Marty. Ring up the .coroner's
office, and have them send a man up.
I'll leave Bierhalter here to look after
things. What's the matter, Mr. Jones?
You're white as a sheet."

The dandy nodded. "I'm frightfully
upset — shock, you know," he admitted.
"If you don't mind I'll wait downstairs
for any questions you may want to ask
me."

"Pretty tough on him," said Jamie-
son, when J. Sylvester Jones had gone.

Johnny Suggs, who had been exam-
ining the room, and particularly the
table and floor, with keenest interest,
said :

"Oh, do you think so? He is Guer-
ney's only relative, and I understand
that he will inherit everything the old
man left."

The lieutenant looked up quickly.
He had a profound respect for John-
ny's shrt tvdness, and there was some-
thing in the reporter's tone that shot a
shaft of suspicion into his brain.

Black Shadows

"You don't think Jones did this?"
he demanded.
"Do you?"

"No, I don't. It's suicide, all right.
What else could it be? Here he is,
locked in his own room with a gun —
it's his gun, all right, for you can see
his name on that plate on the butt."

"I saw it," said Suggs dryly.

"Then, what the devil do you mean?"

Johnny picked up a sheet of paper
from the table. It bore the legend,
"Strickland Guemey — 1822 Mammoth
Building," and a few lines of scratchy
writing, addressed to the Curio Com-
pany of America, requesting the price
of a collection of weapons used by the
Dayak head hunters. It was dated at
noon that day.

"Doesn't it suggest anything to your
mind?" the reporter asked.

Jamieson scratched his head, read it
over again, and looked puzzled. "I.
can't say it does," he admitted. "You
don't think any of these Dayak birds
did this—"

"Certainly not." The slight shrug of
Johnny's shoulders indicated vast dis-
gust with the official police. "Why,
lieutenant, this letter was written by a
left-handed man!" He turned to Brad-
ley. "Mr. Guemey was left-handed,
was he not?"

The butler nodded.

"Then," said Suggs triumphantly, "if
Mr. Guemey committed suicide, how
did he manage to shoot himself, drop
the revolver on his right side, and pick
up the key with his left? Suicide?
This is murder, lieutenant, you can bet
a year's pay on that!"

CHAPTER II

In the private office of the Star's
owner, Johnny Suggs told his story.

"I've checked up on Jones' story,"
he concluded, "and everything is just
as he said. The manager at the St.

Regis, Miss Daisy Graelis, and the head
waiter at the Ambassadeurs, as well as
his own chauffeur, can account for
every moment of his time that after-
noon. It is possible that Bradley, the
old butler, committed the crime, but I
don't believe it. He's the mildest crea-
ture that ever walked. Lieutenant
Jamieson arrested him, of course, but
if you'll give me the chance, dad, I'll
prove that he had nothing to do
with it."

The elder Suggs elevated his heels
to the desk-top, and looked out at the
murky wrack of sky.

"It's good stuff," he said approving-
ly, "and will make a corking story, but
what about the finish, Johnny? We
want to find out who committed the
murder — and you're no detective."

Johnny flushed. "Crime detection
isn't a secret art," he protested. "Any-
body with the wit and patience can do
it. Give me a chance at it. These
boneheads like Jamieson and O'Toole
will never catch the murderer. I saw
what they missed once. I may be able
to do it again."

"You're a regular William J. Burns-
Holmes, aren't you? If you can find
out who killed Guerney in a locked
room, with no known mode of egress,
they ought to make you police com-
missioner. But we won't build any
triumphal arches until you do the job.
Go to it."

Johnny sprang to his feet and
cracked his heels together.

"I'll do it, all right."

Highly elated, he descended to the
street. It was eleven o'clock, and lie
was tired from his chase about town,
verifying Jones' story, but he had no
desire to go to bed then. As a matter
of fact, he intended going back to the
Guerney residence and conducting a
minute investigation of the dead man's
study. He had not seen all he wanted,
to see that afternoon, and as the house

Black Shadows

had been locked, he would have all the
opportunity he desired if he could ef-
fect an entrance.

A taxi was standing by the curb.
Johnny climbed in and gave the chauf-
feur his instructions. In a moment
more he was whirling along the bril-
liantly lighted street, on the first lap
of his search for Strickland Guerney's
murderer.

Three blocks from his destination,
Suggs left the taxi. A policeman was
lolling in front of the house of death,
so Johnny gave it a wide berth, and
entered the alley behind. It required
only a moment to scale the fence, and
feel his way through the darkness to
the kitchen window.

Anticipating his course of action, the
reporter carried with him a chisel, a
jimmy, and an electric torch. In the
utter blackness of the yard he did not
dare use his torch, for fear a roaming
policeman might see it. So, depending
on his sense of touch, he felt for the
window, chisel in one hand.

When he found it 3. sudden cold
streak went up his spine. // was open
three inches from the bottom!

There was someone in that house.
Suggs did not doubt it for a moment.
He was positive it was not the police,
for they had secured the key to the
front door. It was either the murderer
come back to the scene of his crime, or
some house-breaker, who had followed
close on the news of Guerney's death,
and hoped to reap a harvest. Johnny
was not armed, but he shoved the win-
dow higher, swung his leg across the
sill, and climbed in.

The house was horribly still. Suggs
framed the kitchen wall with a circle
of light, and stepping very cautiously,
reached the door and peered into the
dining-room. No one there. No
one in the butler's pantry; no one on
the first floor at all.

Was there anyone in the room where

Strickland Guerney had met his death?

Very softly Johnny began the ascent
of the wide staircase. Then, as he
strained his ears, he heard the rustle
of a skirt and the soft, smothered
whimper of a frightened woman. He
shrank back against the wall and
waited.

A bar of light crept out of the dark-
ness and rested on the age-blackened
oak of the study door. It wavered, as
though the one who held it was nerv-
ous. And then, into that bar of light
was stretched a woman's hand — a slim,
marvelously white hand that fitted a
key into the lock!

_ Bit by bit the reporter edged up the
stairs. He had noticed where the elec-
tric light switch was located on his first
visit there that afternoon, and it stood
him in good stead now. His hand felt
along the wall until it touched the but-
ton, and then he flooded the hall with
dazzling light.

With a gasp of fright, the woman
straightened up and turned. Her soft,
fair hair fell about her pallid cheeks,
and the graceful gown she wore was
spotted and torn from her trip over the
fence and the kitchen window-sill.
Even in that startling moment Johnny
commented to himself on her wonder-
ful beauty.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

The reporter smiled. "I was just
going to ask that question of you."

"Who are you ?" she repeated tensely.
"What are you doing here?"

"My name is John Suggs, and I hap-
pen temporarily to be a wage slave of
the Evening Star. You see," he said,
with a careless wave of his free hand,
"I was at the district police station
when the news of Mr. Guerney's mur-
der arrived — "

"Murder!" whispered the girl, her
hand going to her breast. "Murder!
I — I thought the papers said it was sui-
cide—"

Black Shadows

"So the police thought at first,"
Johnny sighed. "They are shockingly
unobservant. But I found that he had
been murdered. Did you do it?"

He took a sudden step forward, and
pointed his finger at her accusingly. If
he had expected her to show fright or
fear he was disappointed. The girl
straightened up, and a hot color flamed
in her cheeks.

"I?" she cried. "You are insane.
/ am Mildred Guerney — Strickland
Guerney's daughter!"

Johnny laughed. "My dear young
lady, please — if you had merely stated
that you knew nothing of this affair I
should have been inclined to believe
you. But it seems to be a pretty well
known fact that Mr. Guerney was a
bachelor, and has no relatives except a
nephew — J. Sylvester Jones."

"It's a lie — a lie! My mother was
the daughter of a British resident
among the Dayaks in Borneo. Mr.
Guerney came there on a hunting ex-
pedition, and married her. They lived
together for ten years — then he de-
serted her. Mother never gave up the
search for him. She died in Singapore
a year ago — and she urged me to keep
seeking him. I traced him to this city.
Two days ago I met old Bradley, who
had cared for me when I was a child
in Borneo. He promised to help — "

"And so Bradley took an impression-
of the lock, and had that key made for
you ?" said Johnny, with a rare fla*sh of
inspiration.

"Oh !" She shrank against the door's
age-blackened panels.

"Didn't he?"

A tear' stole from under her lowered
lashes. "Y-yes."

The reporter took her hand gently.
"My dear Miss Guerney," he said,
"please don't think I'm utterly heart-
less. It is my business to find out who
committed this crime. I don't think
you did — I know- you didn't. No one

in their right senses could look at you
for a moment and believe you guilty of
a cold blooded murder — even of such
an old reprobate as Guerney seemed to

be."

"I — I really didn't," she said bro-
kenly.

"But, don't you see that, circumstan-
tially, the case looks rather black
against you? Personally, I don't be-
lieve in circumstantial evidence. I
wouldn't convict a cat on it even if
pussy still had the cream on her whis-
kers. Courts of law and juries look on
those things differently. As the matter
stands, you had a motive in seeking re-
venge — you are the only other person
besides Mr. Guerney — to our knowledge,
at least — who had a key to this door.
Please don't cry. Can't you see that
I'm trying to help you — to find a meth-
od of defense? Have you any idea
who might -have killed your — your fa-
ther?"

She hesitated.

"Tell me," Suggs urged, "even if you
have only the barest suspicion. We
must get to the bottom of this matter."

"J-Jones," she said.

"Jones? I checked him over every
minute of time from noon until six
o'clock, which covers the period in
which Mr. Guerney was last known to
be alive, and the moment the police
arrived here. What makes you think
he is guilty?"

By this time Mildred Guerney had
entirely regained control of herself.
Johnny admired her for that. The
position in which she found herself
would have developed more than incipi-
ent hysteria in most girls. He could
see that the marvelously white hand
that held the key was steady once more
Her voice, when she answered, was
clear and low.

"I am making no accusations, Mr
Suggs. I do not know Mr. Jones per-
sonally. But I did learn how he ingra-

Black Shadows

tiated himself with my father, so much
so that he was named in the will as the
sole heir. From all accounts, he is a
typical man about town — a" selfish,
pleasure-seeking idler. He lives at the
St. Regis, owns a limousine, has a
chauffeur — yet he is desperately in debt
and his bank balance is less than a hun-
dred ' dollars. Certainly that would
seem to indicate that he would have an
interest in my father's death."

"From whom did you learn all this?"

"From Bradley." she said defiantly.

"I see," mused Johnny. "Yes. that
would be a motive. If he did do it —
Now, Miss Guerney, there is just one
other thing that I want to ask you, if I
may."

"What fs that?"

"Why are you here tonight?"

"I am looking for the will. Jones
has no right to that money ; he will only
squander it in the cabarets, anyway.
My mother's people are desperately
poor. They have been good to me, and
1 intend seeing that they are made com-
fortable with my father's money. I
don't care anything about it for myself.
I am young, and can work — " She
threw out her beautiful arms in a ges-
ture of defiance.

Johnny took the key from her.
"Well, we might as well go in the study.
You may find what you want — and so
may I."

He fitted the key in the lock — and
found the door unlocked ! It was pitch
dark in there — a velvety sort of black-
ness that one could almost feel. Suggs
turned his flash on, the walls, and lo-
cated the electric switch. This time,
when he turned it on, there was no
gush of light, but the lamp on the study
table winked into being.

Then Mildred Guerney screamed; a
blood chilling sound in that great, dark
house. Johnny sprang to her side, his
eyes following the pointing line of her
finger.

A man lay face down on the carpet.
His clothes were of the latest cut,
though crumpled and torn in places. A
dark wet "spot shone on the carpet by
his chest.

Suggs knelt, turned him over, and
looked into the dead, staring eyes of J.
Sylvester Jones 1

CHAPTER III

When John Suggs reached home
that night — or morning, rather, as it
was verging on four o'clock — he sat
down at his desk, with paper and pen,
and summed up the evidence against
the three suspects:

First: J. Sylvester Jones. He had
a motive, as he was reported to be the
sole heir of Strickland Guerney's
wealth. On the other hand he lived at
the most expensive hotel in the city,
and seemed to have considerable mon-
ey, despite his lack of a balance at the
bank. There was no real evidence
against him.

Second : Bradley, the butler. There
was no definite motive, though he might
have committed the crime for Mildred
Guerney's sake. The strongest link
connecting him with the murder was
the fact that he was the only known
person in the house at the time of Guer-
ney's death. The fact that he openly
admitted this, when he might have eas-
ily gone out and established an alibi,
was a point in his favor.

Third: Mildred Guerney. Her mo-
tive could have been revenge, though
she was not of a type likely to harbor
that sentiment. According to her story,
however, she had ample cause to hate
the old millionaire. The fact that she
possessed a key to the study door was
certainly a damning bit of evidence
against her —

Black Shadows

When he reached that point Suggs
tore up the paper in disgust. He had
searched every inch of the study with-
out finding a single clue that would aid
him. If Jones had killed Guerney, who,
in turn, had killed Jones? If he had
not, who had?

After finding the body of Jones in
the Guerney study, and failing to locate
a scrap of evidence that would incrimi-
nate the killer of Guerney or of Jones,
Johnny had taken Mildred away from
the house of death. She had not found
her father's will, so both were in a de-
spondent frame of mind. The girl was
staying at a modest little hotel uptown,
and she promised to telephone the re-
porter if anything of importance oc-
curred.

Lying back in his chair, eyes closed,
Suggs tried to logically put to-
gether the small bits of knowledge
he possessed into a comprehensive
whole.

The theory advanced by the tran-
scendent detectives of fiction — that no
human being could enter a room with-
out leaving some clue to his identity —
Johnny found to be fallacious. There
was not the vestige of a clue in Guer-
ney's study. And why should there
be ? The murderer had probably slipped
into the house — if he was not one of
the household — quietly walked upstairs,
opened the study door and killed Guer-
ney as the latter sat in his chair. It
could only be by the most colossal luck
that the killer would drop some identi-
fying bit of personal property, and he
had not done so. There had been no
rain or snow to make convenient foot-
prints.

Deduction, as practiced by Holmes
and Dupin, was all very well, but even
those masters had to have some con-
crete clue from which to argue. There
was not a single one for either the
Jones or the Gurney murder, yet they
were evidently joined by a connecting

link. It was inconceivable that it
should be otherwise.

The figures of Jones, Bradley and
Mildred Guerney filled Suggs' mental
vision. His perspective of the case was
clogged by their bulk. One of them
had very likely committed the crime.
Then Jones was killed. Bradley was
in prison, and so eliminated from.that
angle of the case. But Mildred had
been in the house — had been there be-
fore Suggs made his unexpected ap-
pearance. And she possessed the key
to the study door!

Was Mildred Guerney the double
murderess ?

Every fibre of Johnny Suggs' being
revolted at the thought. He thought
of her pallid face, clear cut as a cameo,
and framed by the crown of soft, fair
hair. It was the face of a pure, warm
hearted girl — and one utterly incapable
of such a crime. It wa_s on her slender
shoulders, though, that the black shad-
ow of suspicion lay most heavily.

At dawn Johnny gave up the prob-
lem temporarily, washed and shaved,
and slipped out of the house without
awakening anyone. He took a car
downtown, and had breakfast at an all-
night restaurant of the lunch-stand
variety. It was dim and gray in the
city — a gloomy, foreboding morning,
with a shroud of fog creeping in from
the river.

The reporter lit a cigar, and having
nothing particular to do, strolled over
to the Star office. The city room was
empty save for a sleepy figure curled
up in one of the chairs. Suggs' foot-
falls aroused it.

"H'lo, Johnny," he husked, reaching
mechanically for a cigarette. "What 'n
the deuce are you doing down here at
this time o' night. 'F I was the son
of the boss of this paper I wouldn't
work at all — " He lapsed back into
somnolent desuetude.

"Oh, you wouldn't?" repeated John-

Black Shadows

ny, with keen sarcasm. "I like Palm
Beach and yachts and joy parties as
much as you do, but you see me work-
ing, don't you?- You'd do it, too, if he
was your governor."

"By the way," the other man woke
up suddenly. "A note came in for you
about eleven o'clock ; laying on your
desk over there. It's from Bradley, the
butler who's been held in this Guerney
murder mystery. Friend of yours?"

Suggs picked up the crumpled envel-
ope, with his name scrawled on it.

"Who brought it?"

"A hard looking bird — one of the
guards, I guess."

Johnny ripped open the envelope, and
read:

Dear Mr. Suggs :

Probably the peculiarity of this will strike
you at once. I feel that you are a friend.
If you would do me a favor, when you hear
of my death — and I feel that the end is not
far — will you have my body disposed of as
was that of Gustave Edmonson, who wrote
"The Psychology of the Working Classes"?

With many thinks for your keenness.
Respectfully yours,.

James R. Bradley.

The reporter stared at the note.

It might as well have been a jumble
of unintelligible gibberish so far as he
was concerned.

Then two lines in the letter seemed
to spring out in bold faced letters:

"The peculiarity of this will strike
you at once" and "Many thanks for
your keenness."

The mild eyed old butler was trying
to send him a cipher message!

Now, Johnny had gained valuable
experience with codes during his serv-
ice in the Intelligence Section of a fa-
mous combat division in France. He
had learned to read ciphers of many
kinds. So, tired and aching as he was,
he sat down at his desk, and tried to
unravel this one.

After an hour of concentrated effort,
Suggs decided that, if it was a code, it

was too cleverly done for him to solve.
The letter was so short that it gave him
no opportunity. This reference to
Gustave Edmonson and his book threw
no light on the subject. "The Psychol-
ogy of the Working Classes" was in
the Star's library. Johnny brought it
out, read over the contents page and
skipped through the volume, but it car-
ried no suggestion to his mind. It was
dull and prosy in the extreme and the
possibility that it might have any con-
nection with the double murder in the
Guerney house seemed rather far
fetched.

At eight o'clock he called up Lieu-
tenant Jamieson: "Anything new de-
velop, Loot — in the Guerney case, I
mean V ,

"New?" howled Jamieson. "Ill say
there has. Now, listen, Johnny. I'm
giving you this first of all, because
you've helped me in the past and, any-
way, I want due credit with your dad
for giving his paper first crack at it.
Soon as I get done talking come down
to the Guerney house. I'll be there by
the time you arrive."

"All right. Shoot!"

"There's been big doings down there
last night. Patrolman Duffy was on
special duty in front of the place. He's
a good, sober man, and he swore that
he wasn't a hundred yards from the
house all night. Every hour or two he
walked around through the alley and
looked things over from the back. He
didn't see a light or hear a sound up
till three-thirty. At that time Duffy
was standing by the Guerney stej^, and
he heard a shot from inside.

"Well, he rapp«d for assistance,
broke a window and climbed^in. He
saw a light upstairs and tore up there
hell bent for election. The door to the
study was open — "

"Open?" interrupted Johnny, "I
thought I locked it?"

"What?"

Black Shadows

"I said I thought you locked it."

"I did, but open it was, and the fur-
niture was smashed up generally as
though there had been a scrap — "

"What?" Suggs was thoroughly sur-
prised now. When he was in the study
only a few hours before this occurrence
everything had been in apple-pie order.
And now —

"I said everything was broken up,"
the policeman said peevishly. "This
damned 'phone's out of order, and you
can't hear anything right. Chairs
broken up, pictures busted loose from
the walls — the room smashed general-
ly."

"Come on, get to the finish," urged
Suggs. "You're not telling a short
story with a carefully arranged climax.
I want to get all the dope for the sheet."

Jamieson's hoarse laugh rumbled
over the wire. "We found a dead man
in the study. You're a clever lad, and
quite an amateur detective yourself,
but 111 bet you can't guess who it
was."

"I've got a ten-spot that says I can,"
said Johnny, touched in his pride at
ihe policeman's dig at his sleuthing pro-
pensities.

"You're on. Who was it?"

Suggs braced himself for the bellow
that would come through the receiver.

"J. Sylvester Jones," he said.

"Oh, no," laughed Jamieson. "You
thought I was a dummy when I sug-
gested that it might be one of those
Dayak fellows who croaked Strickland
Guerney. Well, there isn't an acre of
green in my eye, son. Patrolman Duffy
found one of those Dayaks in Guer-
ney's room, with a bullet hole drilled
through his heart!"

CHAPTER IV

Utterly amazed at this turn of
events, Johnny sketched what had been
told him to his sleepy compatriot, and

that gentleman, galvanized into instant
life, began hammering out the story on
his typewriter.

"Better let the old man look it over,"
Suggs suggested. "He's interested in
this Guerney affair, and wants to keep
his finger on it. Better call him on the
'phone, tell him what's happened and
that I've gone up to the house to look
things over."

Johnny was lucky enough to get a
trolley without much delay. And every
rumbling foot of the way he kept ask-
ing himself what had become of Jones'
body? What malign influence was be-
hind these repeated killings? He
thought of his father's words, "Don't
build yourself any triumphal arches
until the job is done." The governor
was right, as usual. Anyone who
solved this mystery deserved a trium-
phal arch, at that.

Twenty minutes later he reached the
Guerney residence, and was admitted
by Lieutenant Jamieson himself.

"Come upstairs and take a look at
the study," the latter invited. "I'll ad-
mit this has me buffaloed. Just where
this brown skinned baby horns into the
picture is beyond me. Now, if it had
been Jones — as you guessed — we might
have been able to fix up a story that
would jibe with the facts, you know,
but this — " He shrugged his shoulders.
"Bradley must have been mistaken
about only the one key. The study
door was open, and I know that I
locked it before we left."

Johnny nodded. He had locked the
door himself, with Mildred's key at one
o'clock that morning. The appearance
of another one relieved him, for it
shifted the shadow from the girl. Be-
tween one o'clock and three-thirty the
possessor of the third key — who was
probably the murderer they sought —
had entered the house. Who was he?

The reporter and the police lieuten-
ant walked upstairs.

Black Shadows

A man lay on the study floor, almost
directly on the spot where J. Sylvester
Jones had sprawled when Suggs dis-
covered him earlier in the morning.
He was a Dayak, finely developed phys-
ically, and from the tattoo marks on
arms and shoulders evidently of a chief
family. He wore five silver leg rings
and a bead necklace for ornaments, and
a cheap overcoat in deference to
western customs. His head had been
crowned by a peculiar bit of Dayak
millinery, decorated with a hornbill
feather, but it had rolled off into a
corner. A parang, or short sword, with
a beautifully carved handle, was
gripped in his fist as though he had
been awaiting an assault.

Johnny knelt beside him, his keen
eyes roving over the wonderfully de-
veloped body and the section of floor
immediately beside it. Quite possibly
this was the man who had killed both
Strickland Guerney and J. Sylvester
Jones. If he was, who, in turn, had
killed him? Certainly not Bradley,
who was in jail. Very improbably
Mildred, whom he had escorted to her
hotel, an hour's ride from this place.
Then it was someone who had not as
yet been suspected.

"Well, what do you make of it?"
asked Jamieson.

Suggs rose, walked across the room,
apparently following a trail that was
invisible to the lieutenant's eyes. He
stopped before the fireplace, in which
no fire had been built for months, ex-
amined it carefully, glanced up the
chimney, and walked back to the
Dayak's body.

"I've found a few things," he said,
"that you probably overlooked. In the
first place, there hasn't been any strug-
gle here. All this smashing, up has
been done for effect. If there really
had been a struggle between this Dayak
and a man powerful enough to give him
a battle do you think that he would

still have held the parang in his hand
in that way ? The way I read it is this :
The Dayak came into the room, all
ready for action, and was shot down
before he was able to make a move.
It isn't possible that, if there had been
a fight that knocked over all this furni-
ture, that this light table with the lamp
would have survived. No, the place
was carefully wrecked before the
Dayak was killed."

Jamieson grunted. "Why before?"

The reporter's voice grew sarcastic.
"Do you imagine anyone could have
wrecked this place and made a get-
away between the time the shot was
fired and Duffy arrived?"

"Why the devil should he wreck it at
all ?"

"Ah, that's the question. The only
reason I can see is that the murderer
was searching for something. He tore
things up regardless in looking for it."

"Well, he was disappointed then,"
grunted the lieutenant. "We took
everything of value — papers and money
— over to the station when we left."

Johnny could have kicked himself.
"I'm certainly the prize cheese detec-
tive of the world," he told himself.
"So Mildred and I — " he already called
her that in his thoughts — "wasted all
that time looking for something that
was in Jamieson's safe. I should have
known that much."

"Anything else?" demanded Jamie-
son.

"Oh, yes. Quite the most important
of all. And it's going to prevent you
from collecting that ten-spot from me."

"What do you mean? You bet that
we would find Jones' body here."

"And so you will." He rolled the
Dayak's body to one side. "Look at
that blood spot. Too far down to have
come from this savage's wound.
Someone else was killed in this room
before Mr. Dayak. There are two
drops of blood between here and the

Black Shadows

fireplace. I looked up the chimney
and caught a glimpse of something.
I'll wager that you'll find Jones' body
jammed up in there."

Jamieson, Detective O'Toole and the
two patrolmen made a rush for the
fireplace. In ten seconds they had
demonstrated the truth of Suggs' state-
ment, and the soot-smeared, twisted
body of the late dandy was stretched
beside that of the Dayak.

They looked at him with far more
respect than they had ever exhibited
before.

"I'll take my hat off to you, Johnny,"
the lieutenant admitted. "Now tell me
who did k. I can't afford to lose out
on this case after letting Mullaney
make a clean get-away last month."

The reporter laughed. "I don't
know."

"You're holding out on me," com-
plained Jamieson.

"No, I'm not. I really don't know
enough to help you, but I hope to add a
little to that knowledge by this after-
noon. When I do #11 let you know,
you can gamble on that. I'm not try-
ing to build up a reputation with the
force. All I want to do is get solid
with my dad. He never had a very
high opinion of my abilities, and I want
to prove to him that he is wrong."

"I'll have to be covered up a bit until
something breaks. What is your paper
going to say ?"

"Oh, we'll fix that up all right," the
reporter assured him. "The Star
will have a story full of glittering gen-
eralities, giving all due credit to the
foxy police, who found out that this ap-
parent scrap was a frame-up."

"All right," agreed Jamieson, slight-
ly mollified, "but for heaven's sake, let
me know as soon as anything breaks."

"Sure thing."

Johnny ,used the telephone in the hall
to call up the paper. His father was
in the office, having come down imme-

diately at the news of the developments
in the Guerney case. The older man
listened quietly, then asked :

"Have you any clues at all?"

"Well," said Johnny guardedly,
"maybe yes and maybe no. I'm going
after something right away."

"Keeler tells me that you received a
cipher note from Bradley. Have you
figured out what it means?"

"No. I believe it is too short for a
message, and I am hopeful that another
part will come soon. Until it does I
am going to follow out some ideas of
my own. By the way, dad, Lieutenant
Jamieson wants you to cover him up
until something breaks."

"Of course."

Johnny rang off. It was his intention
to go to Mildred, and find out from her
if she had been accompanied by the
Dayak as a servant, and if he had taken
up her quarrel and been killed in fol-
lowing it out. That seemed very likely.
He might have murdered Guerney and
Jones, but Suggs could not understand
who, in turn, had killed him.

It was rather too early to call on Miss
Guerney. Considering the late hour at
which she had retired it was quite pos-
sible that she had not yet arisen. So
✓ Johnny left the house, bent on walking
to the little uptown hotel.

The sun had chased the fog back to
the river reaches, and it was delicious
in the open after breathing the death-
ridden atmosphere of the Guerney
house. Suggs threw back his shoul-
ders, and strode along at a good pace,
keenly enjoying the exercise.

He received something of a shock
when he inquired at Mildred's hotel,
only to find that she had left an hour
before.

"You Mister Suggs ?" asked the clerk,
after volunteering the information.
"Yes." •*
"Well, she left a message for you.
Prob'ly thought you'd be here pretty

soon. 'Tell 'im,' she said, 'to come to
2738 Phillips Street right away.' I
guess it's most goshalmighty important.
Oh, thanks."

Johnny sprinted out into the street,
hailed a taxi, and ordered the mahout
to drive at top speed to the Phillips
Street address. There was no use try-
ing to figure out in advance what this
sudden change of base meant — except
trouble for Mildred.

They arrived at their destination in
extraordinarily quick time. Suggs paid
off the chauffeur, and reached the front
door in approximately three seconds.
It was open, and he went in.

From the upper floor he heard Mil-
dred's voice sound in fright and pro-
test. Johnny went flying up, with the
speed of a ten-second man. When he
reached the landing he saw her strug-
gling in the arms of a tall, black-beard-
ed man. At the sight a flood of anger
and passion welled up in the reporter.
He had only seen her once, but that was
enough. Her beauty and courage had
captivated his heart, in spite of the black
shadow that hung over her,

The girl saw him, called his name, as
her assailant tossed her back and faced
the door.

Johnny flung himself forward with
the silent ferocity of a beast. Though
far smaller than the other man, the
desperation of his attack more than
made up the difference. His fists lashed
against Black-beard, who was broad
and thick and solid on the ground.
They drove the latter's head against
the wall panelling with a force that
would have stunned a weaker man.

Instead, it seemed to spur Black-
beard into action. He clenched Johnny
around the middle and buried his bushy
face against that young gentleman's
chest. But the reporter blocked him
off with sharp elbows and drumming
fists. He realized that he would have
small chance at close quarters. His

only salvation lay in keeping clear of
those ape-like arms.

The big man drew back, panting
heavily, then lowered his head into the
shelter of his left shoulder and rushed
again. Johnny leaped nimbly aside, but
slipped out a lagging foot, and Black-
beard went over it with a crash that
stunned him. The reporter was atop
him instantly, his thumbs sinking into
the great muscles at the side of the
neck. The paralyzing pressure stopped
the fellow's breath — made him choke
and beat the air feebly.

Mildred ran to his side. "Come,
come," she whispered. "Oh, quickly.
We must get away from here — "

He looked up at her, the old irrepres-
sible light dancing in his eyes. The
touch of her hand on his shoulder
thrilled him.

"I think we'll turn this fellow over to
the police first," he said gaily. "These
few punches have not been punishment
enough for him."

"No, no. It is impossible. Come."

So Johnny rose, am 1 with a contemptu-
ous glance at Black-beard, walked
downstairs with Mildred.

Once again out in the clear sunshine
the wonder of this affair grew on him.
He felt just the reverse of Wilkie Col-
lins' famous detective. ■ That gentleman
was so used to doing big things that the
little ones escaped him — like a senior
wrangler, who has forgotten how to do
quadratics, and has to solve problems
of the second degree by the calculus.
Johnny felt like a youngster who has
never learned mathematics and has been
ordered to do a most intricate problem.
The twists and turns of this Guerney
case he knew would make him gray-
haired before his time.

"Will you please tell me the mean-
ing of this, Miss Guerney?" he im-
plored. "Every step becomes. more dif-
ficult. We found J. Sylvester Jones
dead in your father's study at one

Black Shadows

o'clock this morning. At three-thirty
the officer on the beat heard a shot,
entered the house, and found the room
wrecked, and a big Dayak lying dead
on the floor. Jones' body had been
crammed up the chimney. Do you
know this Dayak ? What were you do-
ing in this vacant Tiouse? Who was
that bearded man ? I think at times that
I see a light, and then matters become
more foggy than ever."

The girl considered. "The Dayak
was probably Tama Aping, who swore
to revenge himself some day on my
father. He was different from most of
his people — sullen, vicious to the core.
Yes, he is the only one I can recall who
would spend these years in a search for
an enemy."

"It really doesn't help us much.
Granting that he killed Mr. Guerney
the problem of his own death and
Jones' is just as puzzling. But what
were you doing in this house, Mil —
Miss Guerney?"

"The house belonged to my mother,
Mr. Suggs. The black-bearded man
had been watching me. I wanted to get
away from him, and I came here, think-
ing I had shaken him off. Instead, he
was close on my heels, forced his way
in and seized me."

"Why?"

"He — he said he was a detective, and
wanted to arrest me for the murder of
Strickland Guerney !" »

CHAPTER V

Johnny's heart jumped with a sud-
den throb of fear. How had the police
secured intelligence of Strickland Guer-
ney 's daughter? If they had, and knew
what cause she had for hating him her
arrest was only a matter of a few hours.
Now, this detective — the reporter
closed his eyes for an instant, trying to
place those features in the gallery of
his mind. Detective? Why, the man

was Black Allen, a gunman of more
than local renown ! Undoubtedly some
one was interested in having Mildred
Guerney put out of the way, and that
person, Suggs believed, was the mur-
derer he sought.

With a word to Mildred, the re-
porter ran back to the house. If the
thumb-screws were put on Black Allen
he might tell who had hired him, which
would save a lot of time and trouble,
Johnny had left him in the house be-
cause he believed, as the girl had, that
the fellow was a detective. Now he
was anxious to find him. But Allen,
having enough of Suggs' punching abil-
ity, had disappeared.

The reporter explained the situation
to the girl, and together they returned
to Mildred's hotel. Johnny waited in the
lobby while she packed her things. Then
he chartered a taxi, and had them taken
to another hostelry in an entirely dif-
ferent section of the city. This would
throw the Allen contingent off the track
for awhile at least.

Once more back on the job, Johnny's
mind harked to the supposed cipher
message Bradley had sent him. What
necessity was there for it? The butler
could just as easily have sent for him
and told whatever he wanted. There
was no need for mystic flub-dubbery.

The reporter's anxiety to unravel the
tangle, and find out who had killed
Guerney, Jones and the Dayak chief in-
creased with every passing moment.
Though he had no very high respect for
the -gentlemen m the municipal detec-
tive office, he admitted that they some-
times stumbled on the truth through
sheer persistence. And he was very
much afraid that in their blind fumbling
around they would lay hands on Mil-
dred Guerney. Though Johnny was
sure that she had not committed the
crime, he knew that the police would be
harder to convince. Besides, if he could
lay hands on the murderer of Strickland

Black Shadows

Guerney these attacks oh Mildred would

cease.

The reporter stopped at Fifteenth
Street to wait for a car that would
carry him downtown to the prison
where Bradley was held in durance.
While he waited a glittering Rolls-
Royce limousine purred up to the curb.
Hawker, chauffeur for the late J. Syl-
vester Jones, turned his little bloodshot
eyes on Suggs.

"Mr. Suggs, sir, is it not ?" he asked,
with the soft deference of those who
fetch and carry for the rich. "I'm in
a bit of a corner, sir, and seeing you
yesterday at Mr. Guerney 's house, and
hearing so highly of your capabilities —
begging your pardon, sir — I've come to
you for a bit of advice."

"Fire when ready," said Johnny good
humoredly.

"Isn't there any place I can take you,
sir?"

"Well, I'm going down to the
prison — "
"Prison ?"

"To see Bradley, Mr. Guernev's
butler."

Hawker wagged his head hypocriti-
cally. "To think that whited sepulchre
should kill his master. It is almost un-
believable."

"Do you believe it ?"

"Of course. He was the only one in
the house at the time. But you are go-
ing to the prison, sir. If you will ride
on the seat with me I can explain my-
self on the way down, sir."

So the reporter sprang nimbly in be-
side the over-groomed Hawker, and the
big machine leaped away with the satis-
fied purr of a giant cat.

"It is a most peculiar situation, sir,"
began the chauffeur. "You see, I was
in the service of the Jones family for
years. When Mr. Sylvester went for
himself I followed as valet and chauf-
feur — the establishment being a small
one, do you see, sir? He thought very

much of me if I do say it, and his fam-
ily having passed away, he made a will
leaving everything to me"."

Johnny turned a pair of brightly sus-
picious eyes on Hawker, who returned
the gaze steadily for an instant before
swinging it again to the street.

"It develops, sir," the chauffeur con-
tinued, "that Mr. Sylvester left prac-
tically nothing. His bank balance is
almost non-existent. This car and his
other personal belongings must go to
satisfy his creditors. It is very sad —
how close he was sailing to the wind,
sir."

"That makes it rather hard for you,"
observed Suggs. "But why are you
telling met"

"I'm distrustful of lawyers, and I had
to talk about it with someone. Here
is the strange part, sir." The chauf-
feur whirled the car around a corner
and threaded his way through a maze
of traffic at a speed that was a testimo-
nial to his cleverness. "I understand
that my master inherited all of Mr.
Guerney's vast fortune. Many a time
Mr. Sylvester told me of his expecta-
tions. So, naturally, I expect to receive
the money that would have gone to
him—"

They had reached the gray, forbid-
ding walls of the prison, and the Rolls-
Royce came to a stop before the gates.
Johnny descended, but hesitated a mo-
ment, one foot lagging on the running-
board. He had an idea, and he wanted
to see more of Hawker.

"I think I can do something for you,"
he said. "As soon as I am free, I'm
coming to see you."

"You can find me at the St. Regis
garage, sir."

Johnny's eyes met the little, blood-
shot ones in a meaning glance.

"And you," he added, "can do some-
thing for me."

With a careless nod, he strolled to-
ward the warden's office.

Black Shadows

It was quite natural that Suggs should
know the warden of the prison. It was
equally natural that the warden should
be glad to do & favor for a newspaper-
man and the son of one of the city's
most influential men. When Johnny
asked to talk with Bradley the^warden
— supposing it to be an ordinary inter-
view that was desired — assented, and
led him to the old butler's cell himself.

The wistful little man was reading
his Bible, but he laid it down, and rose
as Johnny entered. There was some-
thing pathetically small and dusty about
him — so much like a once-loved toy that
lias been relegated to a far corner of
the closet — that Suggs felt very sorry
for him. He said a word or two about
being sad to see him there. Bradley
responded gratefully.

The warden considerately withdrew
out of earshot.

Suggs said, "I received that message
you sent me, but couldn't make head or
tail of it, so I came here to get the thing
straight from your own Hps."

Bradley looked at him in a confused
sort of a way. "1 — I don't know what
you're talking about, sir."

"There's no need for mystification or
melodrama," said Johnny impatiently.
"I want to help clear this matter up.
You shouldn't be here, but there are
others who should. Most of all I want
to help Mildred Guerney!"

He thrust his face close to Bradley's,
and uttered that phrase with the utmost
emphasis of which he was capable.

The butler's chin dropped ; his mild
blue eyes distended.

"Don't you see, man?" the reporter
whispered tensely. "I want to help
her. It is quite possible that the police
will hear of her shortly. Tell me what-
ever you know. It may help."

Bradley sat down on the cot, and
wrung his hands. "I don't know a
thin^, Mr. Suggs, I swear to God I
don't! Except that I made the impres-

sion of the lock on his study door for
her. I did sleep most of the afternoon,'
and I don't know what happened during
that time — "

"Did Mr,^ Guerney really give the
servants the day off, or did you?"

"He did."

"Why?"

"I had told him Mildred was coming
to the house. He was afraid she would
make a scene, and the servants would
hear it."

"What was the meaning of the mes-
sage you sent me?"

"I never sent you any message, sir."

Utterly exasperated, Johnny turned
to the door. He could not understand
why Bradley should deny having sent
the note, if he really did send it. If he
had not, who had, and why was the
old butler's name signed to it? The re-
porter jerked his note-pad from his
pocket, and laid it before Bradley,

"Write a few lines on there," he re-
quested, "and sign your name. I want
to compare it with that note I received
this morning."

The butler did as Suggs commanded.
He seemed so utterly wearied that his
power of resistance was burned out.
Johnny pocketed the note, said a cheer-
ful good-bye, and went down the corri-
dor with the warden. He felt like a
man in a labyrinth, striving desperately
to reach the center, only to find himself
as far away as ever. The center he
sought was the solution to the triple
murder in the Guerney house. His in-
itial incentive, to spur up his father's
regard, had been supplanted by another.
He wanted to scatter the black shadows
enveloping Mildred Guerney, and re-
gain for her the fortune that was right-
fully hers.

Johnny headed at once for the Star
office. Things were in full blast there,
and no one paid any particular attention
to him as he dived at his desk. The let-
ter he had received that morning was

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flattened out under an ink-well and an-
other lay beside it. This one was un-
signed, and merely bore the words,
"Page ninety-two, paragraph three."

He opened the first letter and read it
again :

Probably the perculiafity of this will
strike you at once. If you would do
me a- favor, when you hear of my death
—and I feel that the end is not far —
will you have my body disposed of as
was that of Gustave Edmonson, who
wrote, "The Psychology of the Work-
ing Gasses"?

Johnny grinned. The second note
cleared up in an absurdly simple way
the puzzle the first one had created.
His correspondent wanted him to read
page ninety-two, paragraph three, of
"The Pyschology of the Working
Classes." He called for a copy-boy
and sent him for the book — the one he
had consulted that morning having been
returned to the library.

Then he laid ou.t the two notes. De-
spite the brevity of the second one, it
was easy to see that the clurography
was identical with that of the first.
Then Suggs flattened out the paper he
had requested Bradley to write. It was
identical with that of the other two
notes !

Why had the old butler denied writing
them ?.

The copy-boy came back presently
with Edmonson's masterpiece. Johnny
seized it eagerly, and opened it at page
ninety-two. In paragraph three he
found this:

"The newest , type of family servant
is the chauffeur, and he presents a most
absorbing psychological study. He is
usually a step ahead of the other serv-
ants mentally, and, in consequence, be-
comes more valuable or more danger-
ous as his character is inclined. I recall
quite vividly the murder of Mr.
Farnsworth Lee by his chauffeur — a
man of — "

Johnny threw down the book with an
exclamation of delight.

"Hawker!" he 'said to himself,
"Hawker!"

CHAPTER VI

That letter brought to a head the
vague suspicions that had been germinat-
ing in Suggs' mind. But, after all,
proof was needed to link the chauffeur
with the triple murder. Without it the
black shadow would still hang over Mil-
dred Guerney.

Before leaving, Johnny stopped in his
father's office. The elder Suggs leaned
back in his swivel chair, and surveyed
his son.

"Well, my boy," he asked cheerfully,
"how is the Sherlock Holmes business
coming along?"

The reporter sat down on his father's
desk and grinned at him. "If you think
1 have been idle you've another guess
coming, governor. That scoop we have
on the murder of Jones and Tama
Aping is worth the time I've spent on
the case, isn't it?"

"Without question. Have a cigar,
and consider your salary raised a dollar
a week. But I'm interested in the de-
tective side of the case — your system of
solving criminal mysteries. Have you
deduced anything today?"

Careless of his father's chaffing,
Johnny sat swinging his legs, his eyes
fixed on some papers on the desk. Then
he looked up, square into the other's
eyes.

"Yes, I have deduced something, dad,
and if it isn't asking too much I'd like
an explanation from you. Why did
you send me those two notes, and sign
Bradley's name?"

"How, may I ask, did you connect me
with that incident ?"

"You have an old letter of Bradley's
there on your desk, and a sheet of paper
covered with imitations of his chirog-

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raphy. You are something of a hand-
writing expert, so it wasn't hard to
guess. But what is the big idea?"

The older man tossed away his cigar
and laughed.

"You arc doing so well on this, son,
that I wanted to help, yet still keep you
puzzled. I thought you would be able
to follow that rather broad clue of mine,
but I didn't want you to know that I
left it. Have you seen Bradley?"

"Of course. The old fellow was all
fussed up when I wanted to know what
his message meant. He hadn't any idea"
of what I was talking about."

The editor of the Star chuckled.
"I suppose so. There isn't any doubt
in my mind that he is not implicated in
this affair. When things are cleared up
I'll take care of him. Now, I want you
to go out and check up on Hawker.
No doubt he has what he thinks is a
puncture-proof alibi. I suspected Hawk-
er when I learned- that he had a bank
balance in excess of one hundred thou-
sand dollars. That was sufficient proof
that he isn't an ordinary chauffeur. So
far as I know, he had no motive in
killing either Guerney or Jones."

"Yes, he had," Johnny asserted. Then
he repeated the story Hawker had told
him an hour ago. "Now, I've mapped
out a plan to catch him napping. If
you'll co-operate with me I think we
can put it across."

When he had finished his explanation
the elder Suggs whistled. "It sounds
good to me. I'll get busy on my end.
Now you chase out, and check up every
minute of his time."

Johnny followed instructions, but at
the close of his investigation found him-
self up against the same blank wall that
had blocked him when he checked up
on Jones' day. The other chauffeurs at
the St. Regis had played poker with
Hawker until Jones had summoned him.
That was at ten minutes to one, and the
car had been marked out of the garage

five minutes later. The traffic officer,
on duty in the park that afternoon, dis-
tinctly remembered seeing the Rolls-
Royce at about one-fifteen. He knew
Mr. Jones personally, and that gentle-
man stopped and gave him some cigars.
The reason that he remembered the
time was that Jones asked him, saying
his watch had stopped and the clock in
the car was broken. Cursed a bit at
the carelessness of the chauffeur in al-
lowing it to happen, too.

Miss Daisy Graelis reiterated her
statement that Jones had arrived at two-
thirty, and that the chauffeur was with
him. She did not see Hawker again
until four, when he returned to the Am-
bassadeur for them. However, the
manager of a poolroom across the street
from the hotel stated that Hawker —
who was an old customer of the place
— had taken a table at three o'clock,
and had not left until five minutes to
four. That accounted for his time just
as J. Sylvester Jones' had been ac-
counted for.

Johnny puzzled over that. He was
certain there was something in plain
sight that he should see — something
that would let him get a hand on
Hawker. And suddenly it popped into
his mind. Why hadn't he thought of
that before? It was just as evident at
first as it was now.

Now, if his plan to force a confes-
sion from the chauffeur — assuming that
he was guilty — succeeded, everything
would be all right. If Hawker really
had killed Strickland Guerney he had
left no clue, and he knew it. On the
other hand, every murderer has a rest-
less conscience — nerves that may be
startled into betraying him. So Johnny
felt fairly hopeful.

He called Mildred Guerney on the
telephone, and outlined his plan to her.
The girl — who had come to trust him
implicitly — agreed to every detail. Then
Johnny paid a visit to Hawker at the

Black Shadows

St. Regis garage, after a flying visit
to the Star office.

The crooked-nosed chauffeur took the
reporter to his room, and asked him
what he wanted.

••I'll tell you," said Suggs. "I'm up
against it. If my father knew that I
was up to my ears in a stock-market
tangle he'd kick me out of the house.
Naturally, I'm not anxious to pass up
the prospects of inheriting his money.
But I need something to tide me over
right now."

"Why come to me?"

"Because you can help me."

Hawker began to worry a creased bit
of "paper, stealthy eyes on the floor. He
was studying Johnny's mental capacity,
trying to figure out, too, just how far
he would go. Finally he shrugged his
shoulders. "I don't know what you
mean."

The reporter hitched his chair a bit
closer. "Yes, you do. I happen to
know that you have a hundred thousand
dollars in the Cathedral National Bank.
I want a slice of it."

"Can you advance any reason why I
should give it to you?" Hawker had
dropped his servile air, and spoke out
with a sharp assurance new to him.

"Several of them, but there is one in
particular that will interest you."

The chauffeur's blood-shot eyes nar-
rowed, and his fingers drummed uneas-
ily on the arm of his chair.

"What is it?"

"Your alibi," explained Johnny care-
fully, "is apparently everything that
could be desired. The police take it at
its face value, anyway. But wliat were
xou doing between the hours of one-
fifteen, when the traffic policeman rec-
ognized you in the park,. and two-thirty,
when you drove Jones to Miss Graelisi
apartment?"

Hawker sprang to his feet with a
sharp cry of anger, but Johnny did not
shift his slouching position in his chair.

"There is no need for melodramatics,"
he said. "You know what I mean."

"What do you want?"

Ah, the cat was out now 1 Suggs did
not move, but the muscles of his face re-
laxed, and he drew a deep, silent breath.

"Fifteen thousand dollars."

"You are high priced."

"Oh, very," returned the reporter,
with a swagger.

"And what could I expect in return
for that?"

"Listen: If the police ever think of
that lost hour they'll be down on you
quicker than a thousand bricks. You
have a chance to get old Guerney's
money. There are just two obstacles.
The first one I've just mentioned; the
second is Guerney's daughter. She is
in the cjty."

He had expected the chauffeur to be
astounded. Instead, Hawker merely
scowled, and said, "I know it."

"You know it? What are you going
to do about it?"

Hawker blinked at him. "If you ex-
pect to get any money from me you'd
better make some suggestions yourself."

"I can keep the thoughts of that dun-
derhead, Jamieson, turned away from
you entirely," Suggs asserted ; "that is,
if I get the money."

"What about this Guerney girl?"

Johnny looked at Hawker with a cold-
ly impassive face. "There is only one
thing to do, isn't there?"

"Yes," said the chauffeur desperately.
"We'll have to put her out of the way."

"Wet"

"Yes, you, too. You don't trust me,
and I don't trust you. So far well and
good. Everything's even, and no one
hurt. But, if we do the job together,
one can't hold the other up."

Johnny pretended to consider. That
offer, of course, was the one he had
been attempting to get out of the chauf-
feur. The reporter knew something of
psychology. He knew the state Hawk-

Black Shadows

er's nerves would be in when he came to
do this cold-blooded crime, and, with
proper coaching, the man would tell
enough to place the noose around his
neck. Suggs had an inborn hatred of
falsehood, but the remorseless require-
ments of the profession he was tempo-
rarily following forced the deception he
was practicing. To lie in the line of
duty is sometimes a disagreeable neces-
sity — and this was for Mildred.

"Will you do this?" asked Hawker.

"And I'll get the fifteen thousand?"

"Of course."

"All right," said Johnny slowly, "but
I can't understand why you didn't do
something yourself when you knew she
was in town."

Hawker scowled. "I sent Black
Allen out to trap her, but someone
butted in on the affair, and gave Allen
a handy beating. The girl got away,
and is hiding somewhere. It will be
necessary to find her first."

"I know where she is."

"You do?"

"Of course. What kind of a. re-
porter do you think I am? I've kept
track of everyone in this case, first and
last. Here's my plan. Do you know
where 2738 Phillips Street is?"

Hawker nodded.

"The house belonged to Guerney's
wife, and now, of course, belongs to
the daughter. I'll get her there by a
fake note, and then — well, it isn't pleas-
ant to talk of those things."

"What time do you want me there?"
asked Hawker.

There was a sound of light footsteps
in the hall.

"Paper," cried a piping, juvenile
voice. "Evenin' Star."

"At twelve; on the dot," said Suggs
hurriedly, opening the door. The news-
boy thrust in a folded copy of the sheet,
which Johnny passed over to Hawker.
"At twelve, don't forget." And he dis-
appeared down the stairway.

While he was striding along the
street, chuckling to himself, the chauf-
feur was staring dumbly at the great,
black headlines that blazoned forth his
financial wreckage:

CATHEDRAL NATIONAL BANK CLOSES ITS

DOORS LOOTED BY OFFICERS IS

REPORT — NOT A DOLLAR WILL
BE REALIZED BY CREDITORS

CHAPTER VII

Sugcs called up the Star office,
found that his father had gone home,
and immediately followed him there.
Dinner had been served long ago, arid
his mother and sisters had gone to the
theatre. The master of the house was
in his room, dressing. Johnny went up
at once. *

"Well," asked the owner of the
Star, shaking out his dinner jacket
and lying it across a chair. "How did
your wonderful scheme work out?"

"Immense. We have him trapped, T
think. Regard your son, old war horse.
He's a criminal. I engaged in a con-
spiracy with Hawker — at his own sug-
gestion, mind you — that we put Mildred
Guerney out of the way. He is to meet
me at 2738 Phillips Street at twelve
o'clock tonight. I am supposed to have
lured the girl there. Gad ! what a cold,
calculating devil he is."

"What about that single copy of the
Star that I had printed, telling of the
failure of the Cathedral . National
Bank?"

"It was delivered just as I left,"
laughed Johnny, "and if I know any-
thing of human nature it will be the
final, jarring punch that will make
Hawker reckless of .. consequences.
He'll talk — and an uncontrolled tongue
has been the downfall of more criminals
than all the detectives in the world."

The older man finished brushing his
hair, and picked up his waistcoat- "It

(

Black Shadows

was a clever idea, son, but I would like
to get that paper back again. The bank
is as solvent as it ever was, but if .that
fake notice ever came to the attention of
the president I would find myself the
defendant in a suit for damages. Ho%v-
ever, it's in a good cause, so I won't
worry about that. Have you explained
matters to Miss Guerney?"
"Yes."

"And she is willing to carry out her
share in the affair?"
"Of course."

"She must trust you implicitly, son.
I know that you are no Don Juan, but
she is an unsophisticated girl. Be care-
ful."

Johnn's cheeks began to burn, and he
gave his father an uncomfortable look.
Silence fell, and he sat down, his boyish
face resting on his hands. The elder
Suggs looked at him curiously, and be-
gan to change his collar.

"Do you — ah — love her?" he asked.

"Yes. What do you think this case
means to me? I am not a professional
detective — the trapping of the man who
killed that selfish gourmand, Guerney,
and Jones and the Dayak means nothing
to me except that it will lift the black
shadow from the girl I love."

Mr. Suggs had finished dressing.
Johnny looked at his watch, picked up
his hat and gloves, and rose.

"It is ten o'clock," he said in a curi-
ously quiet voice. "I am ready if you
are."

Together they went downstairs. The
Suggs limousine was waiting outside.
When they reached the drawing-
room a sudden thought struck the
reporter.

"I don't think we had better go to-
gether, dad. Hawker isn't a servant.
Normally he is clever enough and
suspicious enough to watch this house to
see what I do. You go in the machine,
drive around town a bit, then pick up
Jamieson and O'Toole and Bierhalter,

if they will let him go. He saw the be-
ginning of this affair, and it is only fair
that he should see the finish, too. I'll
meet Mildred near the Phillips Street
address. Have the police slip in the
back way, and make sure that Hawker
does not see them."

"Right you are, son," said the older
man. He took the boy's hand in an
affectionate grip. "I'm with you all the
way, understand — all the way. And, at
a pinch, I don't imagine that I would
make such a bad father-in-law."

He laughed ; relinquished his grip.
The door banged behind his burly fig-
ure.

A few minutes later Johnny, too.
went out.

He met Mildred a few blocks from
the Phillips Street house. In her
pretty, soft gown, with a tint of blue
ribbon at neck and shoulder, she seemed
so very young and lovable that Suggs'
heart set up a disturbed double drum-
ming.

"I am glad you are here," she whis-
pered. "I was afraid that something
had happened to prevent it."

"Nothing could prevent — that!"

"Oh," she said faintly. Then: "Are
we to go in now?"

Yes, they were to go in, it being
nearly time for Hawker to appear.
Mildred had the key to the place. They
entered the dim, old-fashioned back
parlor, where they were to keep their
vigil. Had either been alone it would
have been dreary waiting — a trifle
eerie, perhaps — but being together made
all the difference in the world. They
burned, too, with the gusty thrill of the
man-hunter, a sensation that nothing
else can counterfeit.

At last the big clock in the corner
church boomed twelve solemn, heavy
strokes. Their ponderous reverbera-
tions had scarcely ceased when the
opening and closing of the front door
sounded. Johnny peered hastily into

Black Shadows

the dining-room and received a reassur-
ing hiss from Lieutenant Jamieson.

The stage was set for the entrance of
the principal actor.

Suggs rose and opened the parlor
door to admit Hawker.

The chauffeur was flushed with
drink. Apparently he had sought to
stiffen a wavering courage with numer-
ous libations, and had only succeeded in
forcing the throbbing color into his
cheeks and a heaviness into his tongue.

"When I saw how dark the place was
I didn't know but what you had double-
crossed me," he snorted.

"You didn't think I would have it lit
up like a church, did you?"

Hawker grunted sullenly.

"Well, said the reporter casually,
"here is Miss Guerney to talk that mat-
ter over with you. I suppose I get that
fifteen thousand, don't I ?"

The other took his copy of the Star
from a pocket, and tossed it to Suggs.

"Look at that," he said thickly. "I'm
broke — haven't a penny in the world.
But don't you worry. After I inherit
old Guerney's money I'll double your
stake."

"What do you mean?" demanded the
girl.

Hawker focussed her with his red-
rimmed eyes. "I had a hundred thou-
sand dollars in the Cathedral Bank —
my share of the money that Jones and
I blackmailed out of old fools like
Vanderduynck and Castleton. It went
broke, and took every penny I own.
But I'm going to get Guerney's money
— when you're out of the way — ain't I,
Suggs? So we're going to get rid of
you very politely. I didn't know if I
could trust Suggs at first, but my nerve
was gone, and I couldn't put anything
over alone. So we're going to kill you
together — kill you the way Jones and
Guerney and the Pa yak were killed."

He fumbled in his hip pocket for a
weapon.

Before his fingers had closed on the
butt, Johnny leaped forward, and the
knuckles of his right fist caught the
chauffeur on the mouth. Hawker
reeled back, spluttering an oath through
his bleeding lips.

Before Hawker had recovered his
balance the dining-room door opened
and closed, and Jamieson stood with his
broad back against it. The blue coat
and brass buttons startled Hawker into
instant sobriety. He glared around
like a trapped wild beast. A deadly
fear was stamped on his bloodless face.

"What's the meaning of this?" he
demanded.

"It means that we've caught the
murderer of Strickland Guerney," said
the police lieutenant importantly. "You
should know that you couldn't deceive
us, clever as you are."

"I didn't kill Guerney, before God I
didn't?"

"No? Who did, then?"

"Jones did it. He planned it all, and
carried it out himself. I helped him
with his alibi, that was all. His date
with Daisy Graelis — the ride through
the park — everything was done to cover
up his time. The only bit unaccounted
for by anyone but me was between one-
fifteen, when the traffic officer in the
park recognized us, and two-thirty
when Jones went to Miss Graelis' apart-
ment. .He disguised himself in overalls
and a slouch hat, smeared himself with
soot, and let himself in through the
areaway.

"He had a key to the old man's study
— let himself in. There were only a
few words exchanged ; then Jones shot
him with an automatic, equipped with a
silencer."

"Why? Old Guerney gave him lots
of money."

"It was Guerney's daughter. Jones
learned that she was in town. He
heard that the old man had decided on
a reconciliation, and he knew that he

Black Shadows

would have to act quickly to prevent the
will from being changed."

"Then you killed Jones," charged
Jamieson, his ruddy face deepening in
color.

Johnny laughed. "You're wrong,
again, lieutenant. He did not kill
Jones."

The officer scowled. "How do you
figure that out?"

The reported waved a hand toward
Hawker's shrunken body. "Jones was
killed before the Dayak. I know be-
cause I was in that room, and found her
body. He was a fairly large man —
weighed at least one hundred , and
seventy pounds. Do you imagine for
an instant that Hawker could have
lifted that body and jammed it up into
the chimney the way we found it ? It
took a tremendously strong man to do
that, and one who had a rather primitive
way of hiding his crimes. It's my guess
that Tama Aping killed Mr. Jones, and
that Hawker, in turn, finished the
Dayak. Am I right, Hawker?"

The chauffeur gave him a malignant
glance, but evidently concluded that he
could best help himself by making a
clean breast of everything.

"I did kill the Dayak, but it was in
self-defense," he said hoarsely. "He
had murdered Jones, and hid himself —
I don't know where. He probably mis-
took Jones for Guerney, whom he
hated, and then, frightened, crammed
the body up the chimney. I had fol-
lowed Jones to the house. When he
didn't come out I entered. The Dayak
made for me with that murderous knife
of his — so I shot him. That isn't mur-
der, Lieutenant. You can't do any-
thing to me for that."

Jamieson laughed savagely. "Per-
haps not, but you're a bad egg, Hawker
— a bad egg — just as rotten in your
heart as Guerney was. But you con-
spired to kill his daughter, and you've
confessed to blackmailing a number of
prominent men, so if you wiggle out of
the penalty for killing that greasy
Dayak you're going to do time on those
other charges. Take him away,
O'Toole. The wagon is waiting out-
side."

There was a clink of steel as the
handcuffs circled the chauffeur's wrists.
He gave Johnny a murderous glance
from his bloodshot eyes, and walked out
beside the detective.

Lieutenant Jamieson rubbed his thick,
damp palms. "Well, I flatter myself
that we put that over rather cleverly,
eh, Suggs ? You know, for a bit, I was
worried — what with Mullaney getting
away last month, and all — V

The reporter smothered a smile.
Hidden by the folds of Mildred's dress,
he was holding the girl's hand, and a
wonderful feeling of content suffused
him. He did not particularly desire any
credit for snaring a criminal. He had
succeeded in what he set out to do. That
was sufficient.

"Yes, pretty cleverly," repeated
Jamieson meaningly.

"Oh, yes," said Johnny, turning
away, "the police of this town aren't to
be hood winked, and tomorrow the
Star will give all due credit to Police
Lieutenant / Jamieson. And now, Mil-
dred — er — Miss Guerney — "

Her hand tightened on his,

"Call me Mildred — as long as you
like," she whispered.

{The End)

The Choice

By Eugene Guillaume

HE hesitatingly walked up the
broad stone steps. He was not
yet used to the silent dignity of
the hospital atmosphere.
Inside he took off his soft hat,
crushed it in his hand, and instinctively
softened his footfalls as he stepped to
the information desk.
"Mrs.— el— Follis?"
The girl silently plugged in the
switchboard. A question, an answer:

"Corridor B, room 8. They are wait-
ing for you," she said.

Softly, almost on tiptoe, he walked
down the long corridor, passing a nurse
in the light blue, white trimmed, uni-
form distinctive of the hospital, turned
to the right, and lightly tapped at a
door on which the figure "8" appeared.

A nurse opened the door, looked at
him, turned and beckoned to someone
in the room.

A physician, young, alert, came to the
door, glanced at him a moment, came
out and closed the door behind him.

The man before him nervously mois-
tened his lips.

The physician looked at him keenly.
The man's eyes returned the look ques-
tioning^.

"The time's almost here," said the
physician. "It's serious — the mother,
or the baby. I've told her. She says
to speak to you."

A lightning expression passed over
the man's face. The physician's boring
gaze noted, but did not fathom it.

"May I see her?"

"Yes — but only for a minute." The
physician turned and opened the door.
The man advanced haltingly in the

semi-darkness to the bedside.

"John I" and two weak arms reached
up and clasped him around the neck.

"The doctor says — " her voice choked
"the doctor says," she whispered in
weak tones in his ear, "that it is baby —
or me."

A flash of pain winced her face, and
she paused as it took her breath.
In a moment:

"I told him I'd leave it to you," she
whispered as it passed.

"My brave girl! My brave girl I I
want you — of course I want you," he
answered, low voiced, but vibrant.

A look of ineffable joy came over her
face.

"He wants mc!" she said feebly,
bright-eyed, joy-flushed, to the physi-
cian standing at the bedside. "He's
come back at last — and he wants me!"

A spasm of pain convulsed her.

The physician leaned over quickly,
and turned to the table of instruments
at his side.

The nurse gently took the man's arm
and led him to the door. Even in her
pain the woman's eyes lovingly fol-
lowed him.

The door closed. A moment passed.
It opened again, and the man's head
appeared inside.

"Doctor!" he whispered softly.

The physician turned, looked, walked
to the door. The man beckoned
silently, and the physician went outside,
closing the door quietly behind him.

"Well ?" he questioned.

"Save the baby," the man replied.

The physician stared at him . . .
turned and re-entered the room.

The Long Arm of God

By Ward Sterling

IN a rock-bound gulch, half -buried un-
der the sands of summer, covered
beneath ten feet of snow in winter,
six skeletons lie, grinning mockingly.
In the hollow skulls of two are smooth,
round holes. In one a tiny, leaden pellet
leaps and bumps with each heaVe and
groan of the sun-kissed ice in spring.
The whitened ribs of two are seamed
and scarred as by a knife. Upon the
sixth there is no mark. Nor comes there
any answering rattle when some loath-
some reptile, scurrying from its lair
amongst the rocks and crevices, jars
against the whitened shell that once en-
cased as foul a brain as e'er polluted
God's green footstool. It lies far apart
from the others, denied, even in death,
the solace of their companionship.

It is of the tenant of that sixth grim
remnant, gazing, hollow-eyed, toward
the heavens it can never enter, tbat this
story is written. The flesh that once
covered his weather-bleached bones has
long since been carried away by carrion
birds ; his malignant soul is now frying
in hell — unless, by chance, the devil,
fearing the corruption of his powers of
darkness, has denied the spirit ad-
( mittance.

He mocked God and spit upon His
Commandments. And the long arm of
God reached out and found him — eyen
in the chill, cold arctic hell, where he
had hidden himself away.

Lee was the first to die. They found
him, a month after they had discovered
that they were rich — cold and stiff, his
face twisted into an indescribable gri-

mace, as if he had died in awful
agony. Yet there had been no outcry.
Nor was there any mark upon his body
to show how he had been struck down.

The six of them — Lee, the profane;
Halligan, the religious ; Mason, the stu-
dent ; Wentworth, ill-tempered and
moody ; Kelly, the hot-blooded Celt ; and
good-natured, plodding, old Drew —
were from the same Mid-Western town. „
.They had grown up together, attended
the same school, soldiered in the same
squad. The same girl had driven them
to the land of long winters to seek their
fortune. And, smarting under the same
misfortune, they had been drawn to-
gether, forgetting, for the time, their
differences, sharing one another's dan-
gers, living out of a common purse,
laughing at hardships — yet each praying
that he might be the one upon whom
Fortune's smile would fall — buoyed up
by the memory of a beautiful girl far,
far from their adopted home.

After a fashion, they were happy.
They were filled with primitive vigor
and pulsing with life. They lived con-
stant romances and did not know it.
For such is the way of the far coun-
tries. And the lure of the North had
gripped their heartstrings.

They had been prospecting, without
results, all summer, when they chanced
upon the unmapped, blind canyon which
was destined to be their burial place.
Following the noisy little creek up the
gulch to the spot where it bubbled from *
the side of the rocky wall which blocked
the farther end of the canyon, between
two gray, grim mountains, they decided
to "hole in" for the winter.

There were signs of gold everywhere.

The Long Arm of God

A cabin, old and weatherbeaten— one
of the unsolved mysteries of the ever-
mysterious North — stood ready for
their occupancy with a small amount of
repairing. Near by were a dozen mounds
— grim reminders of a tragic past. In
the cabin were bags filled with nuggets,
their coverings rotted away. The whole
place breathed of mystery — of mystery
and treasure untold. Wood was plenti-
ful and game was abundant.

Halligan and Lee were sent back
for supplies. The others divided
their time between prospecting the
gulch and putting in shape their shack
— a four-roomed affair — for they in-
tended spending the winter in comfort.

Two weeks after the return of the
two, the partners awoke to the realiza-
tion that they were rich. Before they
could even estimate the extent of their
find winter arrived, with its long, cold
nights, burying the old cabin almost to
the eaves under a mass of snow which
filled the gulch, tying them up effectu-
ally for the remainder of the season.

There is no stronger test of friend-
ship than the placing of strong, vigorous
men for several long, weary months in
enforced confinement. With little to do
save eat and sleep, forced to gaze at
each other day after day, they are apt
to fall into a physical lethargy which
eventually creates a nervous tension like
nothing else in the world. Petty quar-
rels become serious "matters. Molehills
are magnified into mountains. They
grow to hate the sight of each other —
to become suspicious of what, under
other circumstances, would not be no-
ticed. And, when each looks upon his
companions as his rivals for the hand
of a beautiful woman, hell is bound to
break loose sooner or later. It is as
inevitable as fate.

When they found the grisly horror
that was Lee, lying stark and stiff in

his bunk, gazing, glassy-eyed, toward
the ceiling, there was no thought of foul
play. It was Halligan who, in straight-
ening out the cold, clinched fingers, dis-
covered the tiny thread of gray wool in
the doubled-up fist and called the at-
tention of the others to it.

Wentworth was the owner of the only
gray shirt in the camp. The others wore
khaki or blue. It had been a cold night
and he had slept in it. Instantly all eyes
were turned upon him, although no
word was spoken.

He turned upon his silent accusers,
his lips drawn back in a wolfish snarl.

"Damn it! If you think I done it,
say so !" he growled. "If I killed him,
how did I do it — and when ? You, Hal-
ligan, slept in the same room with us."

Halligan shook his head sadly:

"When I went to bed, the two of you,
and Kelly, were soldering that hole in
the old coffee-pot. I went to sleep be-
fore either of you turned in."

Kelly looked at Halligan angrily,
then cast a sympathetic glance at Went-
worth.

"I'm sorry to say, boys, that I 'hit
the hay' before the other two. I wish
now that I hadn't, because I'm confident
that if Lee was killed — and I don't think
that he was — it wasn't Wentworth that
done it. He's not that stripe. In fact,"
he hastened on, "none of the bunch is."

Wentworth snorted.

"Keep your blasted sympathy to your-
self ! I don't want it!" he growled.

Halligan shook his head mournfully.

"It's the visitation of God upon Lee
for his blasphemy," he muttered. "I
warned him against it many a time —
poor boy."

They sat around all day discussing
their-companion's sudden taking away —
all but Wentworth. He sat alone in a
corner, silently nursing his grievances.
They had searched the body ; there was
not a mark upon it. The other four
were loud in their statements that Lee

The Long Arm of God

must have died a natural death. But
there was a feeling of coldness — an in-
describable something that cast a pall
over them all — a feeling toward their
once-trusted comrade — a feeling that
the long, lonely days of idleness and
soundless nights of the past now mag-
nified into an unspoken suspicion.

Late in the afternoon they carried
Lee's body up the gulch a few yards
and buried it in a shallow grave dug in
the ice and snow, where it would have
to lie until spring opened up again. The
ground was frozen too hard to dig a
grave being covered by a dozen feet of
hard-packed snow and ice. -

Only Wentworth remained away
from the simple funeral, sitting glumly
by himself inside the cabin while Hal-
ligan mumbled, brokenly, as much as he
could remember of the burial service.

It was late when they retired that
night. All but Wentworth. He refused
to eat any supper, throwing himself
onto his bunk immediately after the
others had finished eating, where he lay,
scowling, his eyes staring into vacancy.

Ill

They slept fitfully. It was nearly
morning when they were awakened by
the sharp explosion of a gun. They
leaped to their feet and one of them
struck a match and lighted 3 flickering
tallow candle.

Wentworth lay dead in his blankets.
Over him hung a pall of acrid smoke.

He lay upon his back, a bullet hole in
his temple, his lips drawn back in the
same wolfish snarl he had worn during
the day. On the floor beside him, where
it had dropped from bis nerveless hand,
lay his revolver.

Next morning they buried him in the
snow beside the man who they were
now sure had been his victim. And
once more it was Halligan who was
called upon to say a prayer.

Again he repeated his warning.

"Can't you see, boys," he mourned,
"that the Lord visited his wrath upon
Wentworth for his sins — just as he did
upon Lee. A man's evil deeds will find
him put. It's a warning for you all to
repent before it's too late."

There was no work done that day.
Even the dishes were allowed to go
greasy and unwashed while they dis-
cussed again and again the various
phases of the second tragedy that had
befallen their little community. Went-
worth had never been popular with the
others, his moroseness and general tone
of surly indifference to everything keep-
ing him from being the general favorite
that the profane but good-natured Lee
had been. Yet it was hard to believe
that he had stooped to murder.

As usual, it was Halligan, the born
leader, who aroused them from their
apathy. Putting the others to cleaning
up the dishes, he cooked a hasty supper
and compelled the three to eat with him.

"There's no use getting the doldrums,"
he admonished them. "They're dead,
and sitting around mooning won't bring
'em back. The Lord giveth and the
Lord taketh away. Of course, it's up to
us to see that their heirs get their share
of the mine after we've taken our wages
out for working it. When we've fed
and cleaned up the shack we'll have a
game of cards and turn in early. I,
for one, am sleepy."

So were they all, for, within an hour
after they had eaten, the four of them
were yawning vigorously. They crawled
into their bunks, Halligan, who refused
to sleep in the room where Lee and
Wentworth had met their deaths, climb-
ing into a spare bunk with the others.

Mason was the first to awaken next
morning. He shouted for the others as
he leaped out of his blankets and
crawled into his clothes. Replenishing

The Long Arm of God

the logs in the fireplace in the living-
room, he again yelled at the other three
and turned his attention to breakfast.

A second later a loud cry from Kelly
brought Halligan to his feet, while
Mason ran in from the outer room.

For Drew lay dead in his bunk. Be-
tween his ribs, buried to the hilt, was
a hunting-knife. And it was Mason's
knife.

Kelly carefully drew the knife from
the wound and looked at the initials
carved on the handle.

"So, 'twas you, after all, was it, you
skunk?" he snarled at Mason. "You
with your damned sneaking ways and
your smooth, oily manner, eh? Though
why you were fool enough to leave your
knife stickin' in him is what I can't
understand. Scared away, were you?"

Mason stepped back a pace, a look of
amazement on his proud face. "I swear
by the ever-living God, boys, that I am
innocent!" he declared. "Why would
I kill Drew?"

"Why— yes, why ?" snorted Kelly, his
eyes glittering. "For the same reason
that you killed Lee and threw the blame
for it onto poor Wentworth, damn your
soul ! I suppose that Halligan and I
were to be the next, eh?" he went on.
"With us out of the way you'd be a
rich man. And then you could go back
and marry Cora Hunter. Oh, I'm no
fool."

Halligan, sitting on the edge of his
bunk putting on his moccasins, said
nothing. Kelly, his Celtic temper leap-
ing to the surface, was intensely angry.
Mason, too, was a man of hot passions,
although he held them under better re-
straint than did the Irishman. He took
a half-step toward his accuser.

"Kelly — and Halligan," he began in
& level voice, "I didn't kill Drew, nor
had I a hand in the death of Lee. It's
B. M. — Sept. — 3

just as much of a mystery to me how
my knife got there as it is to you."

" Tis no mystery to me," snapped
Kelly. "You put it there, you cur."

•You're a damned liar!"

Kelly leaped upon him, the knife he
still held in his hand upraised. Mason's
fist met him half-way, striking him
squarely in the face, but failing to stop
his rush.

With a lurid oath the burly Irishman
jabbed the weapon into the other's side
half a dozen times. With his bare fists
Mason fought the other as best he could
for a second or two. His fingers
clutched weakly about his antagonist's
windpipe. He struggled blindly for a
second, fumbling feebly for a hold.
Then his knees doubled under him and,
with a dull moan, he sank to the floor
at Kelly's feet.

Without a sign of undue haste, Hal-
ligan buckled his belt and holster about
his waist. Coolly he unbuttoned the
holster and drew the gun. He cocked
the weapon and, with his finger on the
trigger, waited for the others to settle
their argument.

"Did you get him?" he asked, as Kelly
stepped back and wiped the blood from
his streaming nose.

"Yes, an' I'm damned glad of it —
the swine!"

Before he could turn around, Halli-
gan placed the muzzle of his gun against
the back of the Irishman's head and
pulled the trigger. A dazed expression
crept over Kelly's face. The knife
dropped from his hand. Then he fell in
a heap across the body of his late antag-
onist.

Halligan replaced the weapon in its
holster and felt of the Irishman's heart.
Assuring himself that it had ceased to
beat, he raised his eyes to Mason, who
was staring at him dazedly.

"You saved my life, Halligan," the
wounded man muttered thickly; "but
you took so long doing it that he got me

34 The Long

anyway. Much obliged; — just — same."
Halligan grinned.

"If I did, I'm sorry," he remarked,
cheerfully. " 'Cause then I'll have to
finish you myself. It wouldn't do for
you to live, you see, because you know
too much. And, besides, I want every-
thing for myself — the girl and the
money both."

The dying man looked at him curi-
ously. "You don't mean that it was
you, Halligan? Great God! And I
never suspected!"

Halligan sat down on the edge of his
bunk and laughed good-humoredly as he
unbuckled his gun and threw it across
the foot of the bed.

"I don't mind telling you about it,"
he said quietly, "because you'll soon be
where you can never tell."

He rolled a cigarette and, lighting it,
inhaled a whiff before he continued:
"You see, Mason, I figured out long
ago that as soon as we struck it rich —
and I felt sure that we would sooner
or later — it would be a survival of the
fittest. I knew that there was no chance
for any of us with Cora until we had
money. She's a selfish little devil, but
she's worth fighting for. And, with all
of us rich, we would be just where we
started. But now it'll be me alone —
just me.

"When we struck pay here, you re-
member it was me that suggested put-
ting in here for the winter. I knew that
it would be easy for me to plant the seed
of suspicion in all of you, for, deep
down in your hearts, you all felt as I
did and each one of you suspected the
other. And you were as jealous as a
bunch of chorus girls.

"Wentworth killed Lee all right. I
watched him do it from the other room,
where I was supposed to be asleep. I
suggested the idea of it to him without
him knowing it several days before. He
and I were doing a job of soldering and
I told him a story I got from my grand-

irm of God

mother — about a man who had mur-
dered his wife by pouring a drop of hot
lead in her ear.

"After Kelly turned in that night, Lee
and Wentworth sat up soldering, you re-
member. Finally Lee dropped off to
sleep with his head on the table. It was
too good an opportunity for Wentworth
to miss — for he hated Lee's guts — so
he drops a bit of the hot solder into
Lee's ear. He died without a struggle,
as I knew he would — for the infernal
stuff paralyzes every faculty. After-
ward Wentworth took off his boots and
sneaked in to see if we were asleep.
Finding that we were, he carried Lee in
and laid him on his bunk.

"You remember how Wentworth tore
his shirt on a nail there by the door ? I
recollected that there was a scrap of
wool hanging onto it. When Went-
worth went back into the other room to
put away his tools, I jumped out, took
the little pipce of wool from the nail
and got it into Lee's clenched fingers
and jumped back into bed before Went-
worth returned. Pretty smooth, eh?

"Wentworth couldn't stand the gaff.
He imagined that I knew that he had
killed Lee, so he killed himself."

Mason groaned.

"I killed Wentworth!" he blurted out.
"You told me that he had— that, he— he
— about what he done to — to Cora. I
saw that this was a good opportunity to
get rid of him and let you fellows think
he had done it himself? You put me up
to it, you devil!"

Halligan laughed.

"So it was you, after all, eh?" he
chuckled. "I knew that you had swal-
lowed my little story, but I'll confess
that I didn't think you would get busy
so quick."

"But the letter you showed me from
her — from Cora?"

Halligan chuckled again. "Mason, I
don't mind telling you that when I went
after supplies with Lee I fixed up five

The Long Arm of God

letters, all identical except the names.
I put one of your names in each letter.
I showed each one of you a different let-
ter, playing each one of you against the
other. That's why Kelly knifed you.
He didn't care a cuss for Drew — he was
itching for an opportunity to get you.
See? I stuck Drew myself, using your
knife to throw suspicion on you, know-
ing that it would start the Irishman.
Where I miscalculated was in thinking
that you'd be armed. I didn't want to
stain my own hands with murder any
more than I had to. I put some dope in
all of your grub last night when I got
supper so that I could pull off the stunt
without arousing you.

"That idea of mine of playing each
one of you against the other was pretty
slick, wasn't it? No one knows of the
existence of this blind gulch here. I'll
have a pretty good nest egg, and, after
I marry Cora, I can always take a run
back here for more if I need it. Of
course, I'll bury all of you fellows nice
and shipshape and I'll tell them back
home about our separating and each go-
ing in a different direction. Oh, I've
got a fH)d yarn cooked up, all right."

The wounded man glared at him
malignantly.

"Damn you!" he cried. "God's long
arm will get you yet — even out here in
the ice and snow of this God-forsaken
country."

Halligan smiled. "God? Bah! If
I'd believed in such foolishness I'd
never won out over the rest of you. But
I made you think I did — and that's
how I got the best of you."

He arose and stretched himself.
Then, seizing the dead man, he dragged
his victim out of doors and buried him
alongside of the others.

Mason watched him at his work with
glaring eyes. Then, as he left the room,
the wounded man dragged himself

across the few feet that separated him
from the bunk. Carefully, every move-
ment filled with pain, he reached up and
took the gun. He tried to lift himself
to his feet and felt himself going.

"O God," he murmured, "help me —
help me — get him — don't let him get —
away with it. Help me for Cora's sake."

He succeeded in getting the weapon
cocked — in hiding it inside his trousers
pocket.

His jaw dropped and, with a convul-
sive twitch, he died.

Halligan finished burying Kelly and
returned to the cabin for warmth. Re-
plenishing the fire, he entered the other
room and found Mason dead. Throw-
ing him across his shoulder, he staggered
out into the gulch again and laid him
on the snow crust while he hastily
scooped another shallow grave.

He bent over the body to roll it into
the hole. As he did so there was a flash
and a report. The bullet swept across
his lids, searing them with its heat. His
eyes were filled with the powder.

Blinded, sobbing with his misery, he
tried to grope his way back to the cabin.
He lost his sense of direction. He
stumbled and fell, arose and stumbled
again. His snowshoes dropped from
his feet. Too miserable to care, he
tried to go on without them. He broke
through the crust to his waist. On and
on he floundered his way, whimpering
with pain — chilled to the marrow —
thinking to reach the cabin, but ever
getting farther from it.

And finally, exhausted, blinded, freez-
ing, he fell into the stupor which marks
the beginning of the end in the Land of
Eternal Snow.

For the sudden cold, grasping hold
of the dead body of Mason, had
hastened rigor mortis. The dead fin-
gers, stiffening suddenly, had tight-
ened about the trigger of the hid-
den revolver.

// was the long arm of God.

Planned by the Stars

By C. S. Montanye

THE sanctum of Madame Sovio
was drab and tawdry. The room
was small and done in faded
blue draperies upon which were
tinsel stars and moons. The one win-
dow that overlooked Sixth Avenue bore
the name of the astrologer in porcelain
letters and the information that her
hours of business were from two o'clock
to five daily. A broad table that stood
in the center of the room held a plaster
skull and a quantity of astrological
charts. Other charts were nailed up on
either side of a door which led into an
ante-room. The low ceiling had once
been painted to give the impression of
drifting clouds. Twin gas jets, black-
ening it, had long past destroyed the
effect. The faint though pungent odor
of gin hung on the stirless air.

The owner of the astrology parlor
sat at the center table. Madame Sovio
wore a flowing Egyptian kimono pat-
terned extravagantly with the mystic
signs of the zodiac. She was old, gaunt
and unprepossessing. Her untidy hair
was wreathed with a greasy veil ; her
shrewd eyes focused on the financial
page of a morning newspaper. From
time to time she stimulated herself with
small quantities, of fluid poured from a
square bottle convenient to her elbow.

Madame Sovio finished a perusal of
the page she read and was turning lan-
guidly to the front sheet of the paper
when she looked up. The door of the
outer room had opened and closed. With
the practice born of long experience she
placed both bottle and newspaper in a
lower drawer of the table, thrust a few
cloves into her toothless mouth, and
stood up.

The "waiting room" of the establish-
ment was even smaller than the inner
room. It contained nothing save a
number of rickety chairs and a red-
faced youth who was pinching out a
cigarette ere consigning the stub to a
coat pocket. The caller was tall, bulky
and unattractive. He wore a rusty
brown suit and stained yellow brogans
with bumpy toes. A celluloid collar
held a stringy purple cravat; from un-
der the sagging peak of a shoddy cap a
low, protruding forehead, dark, crafty
eyes and a loose, rapacious mouth were
visible. It was evident to Madame
Sovio that the youth was flotsam cast
up by the turgid rivers of subterranea.

He met her gaze and shuffled for-
ward.

"You the one that slides out the dope
on what's gonna happen?"

The woman inclined her head.
"Yes. Come in."

The visitor stepped into the room
hung with the faded blue draperies.
Madame Sovio closed the door after
him. She indicated he should take the
chair opposite her across the table.

"Do you wish a horoscope or a read-
ing?" she inquired as he sat down.

He stared.

"A spinner on the docks give me the
gab that you had steered him straight
on the bang-tails. I'm due to gay-cat
tonight on something important. I
want a frame telling me how my luck is
gonna break."

Madame Sovio twined her claw fin-
gers together. She understood the
youth to mean that some client who had
sought her advice as to making bets on
the races had recommended him to her.

Planned by the Stars

"The stars," she began, following- a
usual procedure, "plan and compel!
Their influence falls directly on each
mortal. What is planned cannot be
changed. A man's planetary destiny is
as inflexible as Fate. It is Fate. I
charge one dollar for a reading."

The red-faced youth produced a
crumpled dollar and pushed it across the
table.

"Give me the dope on how I'm gonna
make out. Am I gonna be lucky or not ?
Get the hop working and give me a
buzz. Should I or shouldn't I ?"

The seamy lips of the astrologer came
together.

"What is your name?" she asked
in a business-like voice. "What is the
date of your birth? Upon what
hour of that day or night were you
born? I must know these things
before I read the messages of the heav-
enly bodies."

The youth continued to stare at her
for a long minute. He muttered the
name of Joe Carney, informed her of
the date of his natal day and, without
hesitation, said he had been born at the
precise hour of midnight.

Madame Sovio became engrossed in
a deep study of her charts.

While she bent her gray-crowned
head over the table Joe Carney settled
back in his chair. He glanced about
idly and wrinkled his nose at the fa-
miliar odor of gin that could not be dis-
guised by the perfume of the cloves. He
sat patiently until a slight exclamation
moved his eyes to the woman across the
table. He was surprised to see she was
staring at a chart with every indication
of horror. *

"Not one hour of the twenty-four is
propitious! The day is ill-omened! All
the plentary influences are dark and evil.
Mars, Saturn, Uranus and Mercury are
adverse. Jupiter is in a hostile position
and is ringed with red. This is the star
that guides your footsteps through this

constellation. Its scarlet rim foretells
but one thing."
Joe Carney met her gaze.

"What's that?"

Madame Sovio moved her hand
slightly.

"Murder!" she said quietly. "At
midnight you came upon this earth and
at midnight the stars plan you shall be
removed from it. Urarras intrudes and
blurs the horoscope. I can read no
further. That is all."

Joe Carney laughed harshly.

"The hell it is! I pay a dollar for
that song and dance? Give me the
money back. You're a robber!"

Madame Sovio pushed the dirty bill
he had laid on the table across to
him.

"Take it ! It will bring you no good.
You are in the shadow."

The red-faced youth pocketed his
money, shrugged with contempt and
slouched out, banging the door after
him. For an interval the woman sat
motionless, fingers picking at the thumb-
marked chart before her.

"The red ring," she said half-aloud.
"Blood on the stars — murder on
earth—"

Emerging onto Sixth Avenue, from
the narrow entrance of the building
housing the two rooms of the star-
reader, Joe Carney laughed under his
breath.

"A hell of a spiel!" he said to him-
self. "I should get glomed for a bone
to get that bunk dished out. " The old
dame is nuts."

He crossed to the west side of Sixth
Avenue and walked north. A firm be-
liever in the Black Arts, he wished he
had not listened to the dock-walloper
who had told him of the astrologer. He
could have interviewed a palmist or
crystal-gazer and not wasted his time.
He knew nothing, and now it was too
late to seek another seer. Within twen-
ty minutes he had an appointment with

Planned by the Stars

Stanley Ray, the leader of the Duster
Band ; final plans for the night's adven-
tures were to be unfolded to him.

In sight of the shopping district
Carney entered a side street. He put
a number of avenues behind him, passed
under the scaffolding of an overhead
railroad and presently was on the
threshold of the small area of the city,
controlled by Stanley Ray's band of
thugs and gangsters. Tenement houses
stood shoulder to shoulder in flanks of
brick. Down the slope of the side street
an avenue where freight cars rolled was
visible ; further distant was the water-
front and the Hudson River. Frowsy
women leaned from countless windows ;
children played in the gutters ; the sum-
mer air was dank with the stench of salt
water.

Into the avenue where the freight
trains ran Joe Carney stepped. He put
two blocks behind him and presently
came upon a water-front hotel — a build-
ing that had been old when the city was
young. Joe Carney passed through the
hostelry's yawning front door and
moved into a small lobby. A few loaf-
ers, smoking nauseous pipes, played
checkers silently or slumbered loudly,
shaggy heads tilted forward on flanneled
chests.

Apart from the group, brooding over
his cigarette, sat a tall, heavily built
young man with a dark, sinister face in
which was largely written both deter-
mination and courage. This man stood
up as Carney entered, nodded his head
slightly and opened a white-washed door
a few feet back from where he had
been sitting. When Carney had fol-
lowed him into a small room that was
used as a refuge for drug-peddlers and
their victims, he closed the door and
turned the key.

Joe Carney promptly sat down.

"Well, I'm here."

Stanley Ray inclined his head slightly.
"So I see." He pulled up a chair and

dropped into it. "Listen carefully. I'm
passing you the word that you turn the
job on Tenth Avenue tonight. I've
never told you where you're to go or
what you've to do. All that you know
is you've been picked out by me to
swing a deal and keep your peep closed.
The frame is set so that all you have
to do is to walk in, help yourself and
walk out. A half-wit could turn this
without a mistake. That's how soft
it is."

Joe Carney fished in his pocket for
the half-consumed cigarette. He lighted
it and inhaled deeply.

"I make you. Let's have it all."

Stanley Ray went to the door and lis-
tened. He returned to his chair and
leaned forward. He lowered his voice.

"Limping Lou has turned straight —
by request. He works for the gas com-
pany. Tuesday he went to a flat on
Tenth Avenue to read the cellar meter.
In the front basement of the place are
two rooms rented by a woman called
Mrs. Garber. Lou had finished reading
the meter and was passing out when he
heard a clinking noise. It came from
inside Mrs. Garber's front room. Lou
tried to lpok through the keyhole, but
it was plugged. So he went out into the
alley and found the side window of the
same room. This window was pro-
tected by bars, but was open at the top.
Lou found a barrel, stood up on it and
looked through the top of it."

Joe Carney drew a breath!

"What did he see?"

Stanley Ray leaned still closer.

"He saw Mrs. Garber sitting before a
trunk — counting money! Lou said she
was tying up bales of the green stuff in
old aprons. He watched her until she
put the aprons in the trunk, filled it to
the top with old clothes and then shut
it up! That's what he saw!"

Joe Carney dropped his cigarette to
the floor and ground it out with his heel.

"What else?"

Planned by the Stars

"I stuck a plant up there," Stanley
Ray resumed "I found out this Mrs.
Garber is out every afternoon. She
makes her money playing the stock mar-
ket. It's no use trying to get into the
room during the day because the janitor
of the building and a bunch of ginnies
are laying pipe in the cellar. I sent the
Turk up yesterday. He took a fall out
of the bars. He filed them to the bone.
A couple of pulls will yank them out.
The window's always open and you can
go in over the top of it."

Joe Carney lifted his head.

"What time do I go in? Will the
miser be there when I get to the trunk ?
How much long change do I get out of
this?"

The leader of the Duster Band fr.v-
ored Carney with a direct, cold stare.

"You get what / give you ! Have you
anything to say about it?"

Before the bland stare of the gangster
king Joe Carney's eyes wavered and
fell.

"Nothing," he said hastily. "Put me
right on it!"

Stanley Ray smiled faintly.

"I found out this Mrs. Garber gets
telephone calls from Levy's Drug Store.
At a quarter of twelve I'll telephone the
drug store and tell them to send for
Mrs. Garber. They'll shoot their kike
kid over to the basement. You'll be in
the alley at quarter of twelve. When
she goes out you go in. I'll stall her on
the wire as long as possible. It should
take you just about ten minutes to grab
the dough and exit. Do you get me?"

Joe Carney reflectively rubbed his
beard-rusty chin.

"Yes," he said laconically.

_ II

The night was hot and unstirring.
A full moon rode high in a cloudless
sky. The dank smell of the river grew
more pronounced. The streets were

lined with coatless loungers sprawling
at ease in doorway or on stoop.

Joe Carney, shuffling up Tenth Ave-
nue, searched each store window for a
clock to tell the hour by. It could not
be very late. The avenue was well filled'
— a number of shops were open and
doing business. Again he regretted some
prophet had not been employed to prog-
nosticate the fortunes attending the en-
terprise, In every task he had set out
to accomplish he had been warned in
advance as to the condition of his luck.
If he had been told it was not favorable
he had postponed the event. And never
once had he been apprehended.

He walked on, hands rammed in the
pockets of his coat. He eyed the num-
bers of the buildings as he passed them,
still searching for a clock, growing
aware his destination must be only a
few blocks distant. He saw the moon
creep up over the sullen roof-tops and
perceived the canopy of brightly shining
stars. He thought of the astrologer of
the early afternoon and the jumble of
her words.

"A murder 1" he chuckled, touching
the automatic revolver hung under his
left arm. "Swell chance!"

Two more blocks traversed, he came
abreast the building in whose basement
the wealthy Mrs. Garber resided. And
at the same minute his eyes fell upon the
face of a clock in a store of the tene-
ment and he started.

The hands of the clock pointed to five
minutes of the midnight hour!

Guiltily realizing he had been delin-
quent and heedless of time, Carney de-
scended a number of steps that led down
into the basement. He found himself in
a cement-lined passageway. He fol-
lowed it to its termination and found
himself in the clothes-line hung back-
yard in the rear of the building. An
alley ran into the backyard, presided
over by a lean cat. Carney removed the
animal from his path with a toe of his

Planned by the Stars

boot and crouched against the face of
the alley's brick wall, ceasing to curse
the vivid moonlight only when a barred
window of translucent glass leaped out
to meet him.

A tingle of anticipation ran through
Joe Carney. He)' found the same barrel
Limping Lou had made his observations
from and wheeled it close to the win-
dow. He mounted it cautiously and ap-
plied an ear to the aperture in the win-
dow's top. All was quiet within. Ob-
viously, he decided, Mrs. Garber was in
the drug store or on her way to it. He
was ten minutes late and would have to
work rapidly.

The window bars yielded instantly to
his grasp. He tore them roughly away,
one by one. When the last bar had been
wrenched loose, Carney pressed the top
half of the window lower and poked a
head into the inky blackness of the
room. Low but distinctly he heard the
monotonous ticking of a clock.

Satisfied that no menace crouched in
the gloom, Carney threw a leg over the
sash and lowered himself into the room.

Until his eyes could grow accustomed
to the murk he stood motionless. A
faint odor of gin assailed his nostrils.
Faint stirrings tuned his nerves to a
high pitch. With a sense of direction
fixed firmly in mind, he crept forward.
The treasure chest, Stanley Ray had
told him, rested to the right, against the
room's north wall. As the thought
flashed through his mind, his knees came
in contact with some low-set object.
His outstretched hands clasped the top
of something he knew immediately was
the trunk, and he exhaled a breath of
relief.

The cover of the trunk swung upward
at his touch. He felt to make sure that
the connecting arms were firmly fast-
ened and delved into a mass of soft gar-
ments, placed layer upon layer. These
he dug out and flung to the floor, bur-
rowing, mole-like, to reach the apron-

wrapped treasure. The scent of gin

seemed to envelop him. He wondered
why this odor should stir odd recollec-
tions — recollections he could not piece
together.

He had pulled the last article of cloth-
ing from the trunk when the door of
the room vibrated with a sudden stac-
cato rapping. Ere its first echoes
throbbed into silence, a nasal voice sup-~
planted the loud knocks with an insistent
statement :

"Mrs. Garber! Somebody wants you
on the telephone down at Levy's!"
/ Joe Carney's hands closed convulsive-
ly. The clock he had looked upon had
been fast or the telephone had marred
Stanley Ray's message!

In either case, Mrs. Garber must be
within a few feet of him!

The messenger from the drug store
began his rapping again. Stiff as stone
Joe Carney sought to think. Then, as
the knocks ceased for the moment, he
heard, from some quarter close at hand,
the creak of a bed, a soft footfall — a
sibilant swish that told of a garment
being donned. Followed at once the
rasp of an opening door. A vagrant air
current, stirred to new action, touched
Carney's forehead — cold against the
sweat that had gathered upon it.

Breathless questions rushed through
the mind of the intruder. Should he al-
low the woman to answer the messen-
ger? Or should he strike before she
reached the door?

Another series of footfalls wheeled
him silently about. Someone was ap-
proaching — had stepped through the
door. He thought he could detect a
muffled shape of shadow moving closer
to him. The suspense of waiting was
agony. A breath caressed his hot face
and a hand touched his arm. Someone
gasped.

At the same moment he sprang for-
ward.

With a low growl he felt his fingers

Planned by Ihe Stars

dig deep into a soft, stringy throat.
Eyes glared into his own; for all of the
fact she was a woman, the figure he
clutched fought desperately, Carney re-
leased his left hand to bring it down
with crushing force on the jaw of the
struggling figure. Before he had
crashed it savagely into the upturned
face the woman managed to wrench a
scream from between her lips.

Cursing, Carney struck again. He
gripped the throat again with the hand
he had used with hammer force and
shook the woman as a terrier shakes a
rat. As if from a distance he heard
fresh raps falling upon the door — the
voice of the messenger:

"Mrs. Garber! Mrs. Garberl"

Then silence.

Carney relaxed the gripping pressure
of his death-working fingers. He found
he was talking but knew not what he
said. He had killed a woman, but it was
her own fault. Hot blood pounded
within him — rage and a gloating satis-
faction. He felt that at that moment
he wished she possessed the nine
lives of the cat he had kicked
from his path. He would strangle
each from her.

And then he realized the apron-
wrapped loot would never be his if he
stood longer, clutching the limp figure.
He opened his hands. The body
slumped to the floor. The moon, swing-
ing around, entered the alley and crept
into the room, lighting it up like a pale
arc-lamp. Carney looked down at the
huddle of his victim.

The woman had fallen on her back.
Her face was upturned to him —
wreathed with a horrible, fixed grin.
He stared, fascinated, eying, too,

greasy gray hair that seemed strangely
familiar. For a full watch-tick he
stared, rigid. The odor of gin — the
gray hair — the gaunt face, painted with
the ghastly moonglare. All at once
knowledge flooded him.

Mrs. Garber wore the face of the
Madame Sovio who had read the stars
for him that afternoon in the Sixth Ave-
nue room!

"Murder!" Carney whispered. "She
had the right dope!"

Something, as he straightened up.
stopped the flow of the incoming moon-
light. He raised his eyes and turned
them to the window. His gaze flashed
and fell upon a helmeted head looking
in over the lowered top of the translu-
cent window. His right hand darted
under his jacket and gripped his auto-
matic. In some blind, dizzy fashion
he managed to drag it out.

But before he could pull the trigger
the yellow glare of an electric torch
smote him directly between the eyes.
A voice, curt and imperious, bade him
throw up his hands. Carney, blinking
like an owl drenched in sunshine, fell
back. His weapon crept up to firing
position.

Then the heavy silence was shattered
by the sound of six shots, so rapidly
fired that they merged as one.

The automatic fell from Carney's
hand. He wondered vaguely if he had
been shot — why his legs seemed to be
melting away. Cursing again, his brain
reeled and scintillated with sparks. He
groaned and fell heavily across some-
thing softly yielding. . . .

The clock that had ticked monoto-
nously whirred and struck the hour of
twelve.

Fingers from the Grave

By Edwin Carty Ranck

TOM GRIMSTEAD was not look-
ing for a "story" when he decided
to spend a night in the haunted
Carey house. As a newspaper-
man, he had frequently exposed many
hogus mediums and spiritualists, but the
accounts of those who had spent, or
rather tried to spend, a night in the
Carey house seemed so authentic and
honest that Grimstead, who was enjoy-
ing his vacation in the quaint New Eng-
land town of Sedley, longed to experi-
ence some of the thrills that had come
to these narrators.

"There was a presence in the house,"
quavered Martin Stacy, who had once
spent part of a night there. "I — I
felt it !"

"Could you see it?" asked Grimstead.
Martin shuddered.

"No," he whispered, "but I knew it
was there — whatever it was. If anyone
sneaked into your room when you were
reading, without making any noise, you
would feel they were there even if you
hadn't seen 'em — wouldn't you?" Grim-
stead nodded. "Well, it was that same
sort of feeling that came over me in
Mrs. Carey's bedroom."

Martin Stacy's story was similar to
the others. They had all felt a sinister
presence in Mrs. Carey's room and the
feeling had always been followed by
senseless, unreasoning terror that made
them flee into the night.

The Carey tragedy had been the grim-
mest that had ever occurred in the town
of Sedley. Twenty years before, Wel-
don Carey had brought his bride to the
old Carey house, which had been built

by a colonial Carey and inhabited by
Careys ever since. Selma Carey was
beautiful and vivacious and she appeared
to be as madly in love with the old house
and its colonial traditions as she was
with its master.

Then came the • tragedy I Young
Mrs. Carey was found murdered one
morning — strangled to death — and her
husband told incoherently how two bur-
glars had broken into the place at mid-
night. One of them had throttled Mrs.
Carey and the other was threatening
him with a revolver, when some noise
frightened them away. The country-
side was searched for the two men, but
they were never apprehended and the
verdict of the coroner's jury was that
Mrs. Carey had come to her death "at
the hands of a person or persons un-
known."

Carey seemed heart-broken after the
tragedy, and finally, not succeeding in
selling the old house, he left it in charge
of a caretaker and went abroad to live.
In all these intervening years he had
never returned to his birthplace, nor
could anyone be induced to rent the
place. — ■

Tom Grimstead thought as he stood
in front of the Carey mansion at dusk
one September afternoon that he had
never seen a more repellent-looking
house. There was something indescrib-
ably repugnant about it, as if one were
contemplating the corpse of a house.
Horror surrounded it like a nimbus, and
Grimstead's first impulse was to walk
hastily away. But shaking off the feel-
ing of dread that had settled upon him
like an incubus, he resolutely walked up

Fingers from the Grave

the weed-encumbered" walk that led to
the front door, armed with a key that
he had experienced no difficulty in se-
curing from a cynical real-estate agent,
who promptly offered to wager that he
would not stay the night out — a wager
that Grimstead as promptly accepted.
He carried a handbag that contained a
supply of sandwiches, a small auto-
matic, half a dozen fat candles, a flash-
light and two volumes of Poe's grisliest
short stories. He ironically thought of
these as his "ghost props."

But, stout-nerved as he was, Grim-
stead shrank back instinctively as the
front door slammed shut, leaving him
in impenetrable darkness. This instan-
taneous plunge into blackness was sud-
den enough to daunt anyone, and for a
second time that afternoon Grimstead
was tempted to abandon his ghost quest.
Then he reflected that thrills were what
he had come for, and lie was disgusted
at the realization that he was allowing
his subconscious self to be affected by
the stories he had heard. If he were
really a skeptic, as he had always prided
himself on being, he was on the verge
of the most interesting adventure of his
none-too-dull life. So he opened his
handbag by touch alone, turned on his
flashlight and took stock of his sur-
roundings.

He was in an old-fashioned living-
room at the far end of which was a
huge open fireplace. In front of him
a fine specimen of colonial architecture
in the shape of an imposing staircase
pointed the way to adventure on the
second floor. The large room was fully
furnished, but a smell of decay and mil-
dew assailed Grimstead's nostrils.

The atmosphere was heavy and fetid :
odors of bygone days seemed to meet
and commingle, and the air held a pene-
trating chill. Something soft brushed
his face in the semi-gloom and he start-
ed back involuntarily and then laughed
nervously. It was a death's-head moth

and the creature settled upon the back
of a large upholstered chair, its wings
spread wide, shivering as the bright ray
from the flashlight illumined its ghastly
markings.

With a little shiver that was not en-
tirely due to the chill of the place, Grim-
stead started up the stairs in search of
Mrs. Carey's bedroom, which, he had
been told, was the front room at the left
of the upper hallway. But first he ex-
plored the other rooms, finding them all
furnished but reeking with desolation
and decay. Time had wrought sad
havoc upon objects of inestimable value
to the collector of colonial antiques.

Grimstead now turned the handle of
the door that led into the dead woman's
bedchamber and found himself in an
ancient boudoir about which still clung
an elusive odor of mignonette and lav-
ender. Against one side of the wall
was an antique dressing-table, but the
surface of the long mirror which had
in bygone days often reflected the fair
image of Selma Carey was now opaque,
blurred over by the film of years. Near
the dresser was a four-poster bed cov-
ered with a yellowed counterpane, and
two pillows were in place at its head.
It was hard to believe that no one had
slept there for twenty years.

With the exception of the dust that
covered everything, and a dank smell,
the room and its furnishings appeared
to have been left as they were on the
day of the tragedy and Grimstead found
himself glancing from time to time at
the door of the dressing-room, which
was about ten feet from the bed, as if
he expected a charming figure in
deshabille to come romping into the
room at any moment.

So acute was this impression that he
strode across the room and threw open
the door of the dressing-room, peering
curiously within. It contained an old-
fashioned tin bathtub, the paint from
which was chipped off here and there.

Fingers from the Grave

giving it a dismal look of dilapidation.
On a rusty metal towel-rack hung a
rotting huth towel, and front a hook in
the wall was suspended a mildewed
dressing-gown that had once been lav-
ender-colored.

With a look of infinite pity, Grim-
stead closed the door softly behind him,
his vivid imagination conjuring up the
picture of a lovely woman with golden
hair cascading to her waist, humming a
gay little tune as she prepared for her
bath.

He now set the stage for his lonely
vigil.

Lighting one of his fat candles, he
placed it upon the dusty dresser in such
a position that its^ame illumined the
bed. r-

Theh he stuck another above the
fireplace on the while marble mantel-
piece.

Drawing up a small dressing-table, he
placed his third candle upon that and
then he dusted off a comfortable Morris
chair with wide arms and placed it
where he could command a view of the
entire room. The dressing-table was at
his left, within easy reaching distance,
and on this he placed his sandwiches,
his automatic and his volumes of Poe

Satisfied with these strategic arrange-
ments, he lit his pipe, sank into the big
chair and was soon immersed in "The
Fall of the House of Usher," which he
had decided was the proper yarn for
the time, the place and the man.

It was so silent in the house that the
scampering of mice in the wainscoting
sounded as loud as the romping of New-
foundland dogs. Kvery now and then
one of them would squeal as if it were
being murdered, and whenever this hap-
pened Grimstead would pause in his
reading and look up with a startled
tenseness, expecting to see — he knew
not what. The wind was "rising and it
howled and moaned like a tortured
spirit striving with futile hands to force

an entrance through the rotting eaves
of the ancient house. It was an eerie
sound and Grimstead found himself
forced to exert all his will-power in
order to concentrate upon the harrow-
ing tale that he was reading. He felt
like a spectator awaiting the climax to
a particularly dramatic scene in a melo-
drama.

There came a lull in the wind and the
mice suddenly ceased to scamper as if
at a signal from a master mouse. The
old house appeared to be waiting in sus-
pense^ — holding its breath. Grimstead
had reached the point in his story where
the sound of muffled blows from the
vault was reverberating through the ill-
fated house of Usher.

"Madman," he read, "/ tell yoti—"

He looked up quickly. The dying
down of the wind and the cessation of
the scamperings in the wainscoting made
the room feel as dead as stagnant water
looks. But it was not the nerve-racking
stillness that had galvanized Grimstead
Jnto alert attention. It was the unalter-
able conviction that someone or some-
thing was lurking near him. Reaching
stealthily for the automatic, he glanced
keenly around the room. Certainly he
was the only living soul there 1 But —

The door of the dressing-room was
slowly opening!

Grimstead stared incredulously at the
widening aperture. He had thoroughly
inspected the room less than half an
hour before and no living creature
could have been concealed there. Nor
was there any other door^to the room.
The thing was impossible — yet it was
happening before his eyes !

Wider, wider the door opened, and
then, as Grimstead held his breath in
suspense, something stepped into the
room. He could not see it but he felt
it, and an icy wind suddenly stirred the

Fingers from the Grave

roots of his hair at the realization that
he was no longer alone. He heard the
ghostly sound of footsteps crossing the
room and then the candle on the dresser
suddenly wavered as if a passing breeze
had slightly stirred it. As the para-
lyzed newspaperman gazed wide-eyed
from his chair, there came from the
dresser the unmistakable sound of hair-
pins tinkling down into a celluloid tray.

Thinking that an over-vivid imagina-
tion was playing him tricks, Grimstead,
by a tremendous effort of will, sat erect
in his chair and was about to spring to
his feet, when an amazing thing stupe-
fied him once more into inaction.

The ghostly footsteps crossed the car-
pet once more, like the soft brushing of
unseen wings, and Grimstead saw the
bed suddenly sag — as if a body were
lying there — and then one of the pillows
became indented — as if a head were
resting there.

Something invisible was reclining
upon the bed!

As this incredible fact percolated
through Grimstead's understanding,
blind panic assailed him. Only one
thing, he confessed afterward, pre-
vented him from becoming a gibbering
idiot. That was his discovery that the
door leading into the dressing-room,
which was wide open after his visitant
had entered, was now tightly closed.
This tended to convince him that the
entire episode was an hallucination due
to overwrought nerves.

At any rate, he sprang to his feet, de-
termined to probe the mystery to its
depths, when a sound smote upon his
ears that stiffened him in his tracks and
made him snatch the automatic hur-
riedly from the table.

Someone was coming up the stairs!

He heard the sound of shuffling, re-
luctant footsteps, as if the person, thing
or whatever it was, were disinclined to
make the ascent. Slower and more hesi-
tant became these ominous footsteps,

and Grimstead, now utterly unnerved,
gripped the automatic frantically and
turned a white face in the direction of
the bedroom door, not knowing what to
expect. But he felt convinced that if
this door opened as the other had done
and no tangible thing entered he should
scream like an hysterical woman.

The unwilling footsteps had now
reached the landing outside the door and
came to a halt there, as if the intruder
were listening. This wait seemed inter-
minable to the crouching newspaperman
who stood immovably by the table, his
automatic aimed straight at the door.
Finally there was a shuffle of feet and
then a hand turned the knob. Slowly
the door opened. .

"Hands up," cried Grimstead hoarse-
ly, "or 1*11 shoot."

"What the devil?" growled a sur-
prised voice, and Grimstead emitted a
great sigh of relief. At least it was a
human being!

A heavily built, bearded man about
fifty years old, a stranger to Grimstead,
walked slowly into the room, first glan-
cing around fearfully before allowing
his gaze to rest upon Grimstead.

"Now then," he said coldly, "who are
you and what are you doing in this
house?"

"Just what I was going to ask you,"
grinned Grimstead, his self-possession
now fully restored.

"I am — " began the stranger — and
then came the crowning horror of that
memorable evening. The man's voice
suddenly broke and his tanned face
turned livid with fear. He was star-
ing with a look of indescribable terror
at the bed.

"What's that? Who's there?" he
whispered in high-pitched, terror-laden
accents.

"Why — what — " stammered Grim-
stead and then froze into the gaping
figure of a man.

The indentations in the bed and pil-

Fingers from the Grave

low slowly straightened out like a flat
automobile tire when the air rushes
in.

Once more Grimstead heard those
ghostly footsteps and then the
bearded man shrieked like a demon in
hell.

"Selma, for God's sake, don't!" he
' gasped. "I didn't mean to do it ! I
swear I didn't mean to do it!"

He staggered back, fumbling at his
throat and gasping for breath.

"Take your hands away!" he panted.
"My God, you are throttling me!"

His voice died out in a choking gurgle
and he staggered wildly around the
room, pulling desperately at his throat
as if trying to unloosen the clutch of
hands. Grimstead took hold of the
struggling figure.

"You are mad !" he cried. "There is
no one here!"

The stranger did not seem to hear.

His eyes were rolling in his head and
his face was turning a mottled purple.
Up and down the room he threshed in
agony, trying vainly to break the deadly
hold that was apparently fastened upon
his windpipe with the grip of a mad-
dened bulldog. It was a horrible sight
and Grimstead could do nothing but fol-
low the agonized man, who seemed des-
titute of all reason.

The end came quickly! Suddenly
there was a rattling sound in the man's
throat and then he sank slowly to his
knees and toppled forward on his face.
Once more the sound of invisible foot-
steps and Grimstead looked up from the
dead body in time to see the door of
the dressing-room open quickly and
close.

Then he . lost all control over his
twitching nerves and ran shrieking out
of the room, down the stairs and out
into the fresh sweetness of the Septem-
ber night, staggering like a drunken
man, his brain reeling from the horrors
of that fetid bedroom.

Ill

The sight of the familiar street and
the feel of the wind blowing in his face
partially restored his faculties to nor-
mal, but he was trembling like a drug
fiend as he entered Dr. Stoughton's office
and his speech was so incoherent that
the amazed physician was convinced that
he was either intoxicated or insane. But
as the spell of the horror wore away and
Grimstead began to talk more ration-
ally Dr. Stoughton realized that this
was no ordinary case and that Grimstead
was neither intoxicated nor insane. He
was that most pathetic of all objects —
a strong man suffering from overwhelm-
ing fright.

Dr. Stoughton had been the Carey
physician and was for many years Wel-
don Carey's closest friend. So it was
with a very grave face that he went back
to the house with Grimstead, accompa-
nied by "Mort" Farley, an official who
facetiously called himself Sedley's
"chief of police."

It was with a strong shudder that
Grimstead entered the house that had
shattered his skepticism to bits, and fol-
lowed the two men upstairs. Every-
thing in the bedroom was just as he
had left it. His candles were still burn-
ing and his automatic lay where it had
fallen from his nerveless hand. In the
center of the room was a huddled heap
that had once been a man.

"Hm! This looks bad!" ejaculated
Dr. Stoughton as he bent above
the prostrate figure. He turned the
body over and the face peered up at
him, distorted and black as a charred
log.

"My God. it's Weldon Carey!" he
shouted, drawing back from the corpse
in sudden horror.

"How do you know?" asked Farley
in awestruck tones. "It has been
twenty years — and this man wears a
beard."

Fingers from the Grave

Dr. Stoughton lifted the man's limp
left hand.

"I can tell by this amethyst ring on
.the little finger," he explained. "It was
given to him by his mother and he has
always worn it on that finger, as it was
loo small to fit on any of the others."

"What do you think caused his death,
Doctor?" asked Grimstead.

"It" was a sudden rush of blood to
his head," said Dr. Stoughton, "caused
by a tremendous shock of some sort."
Then, after a pause : "It couldn't have
been anything else. There are no marks
on his throat," and he looked challeng-
ingly at the newspaperman.

"I only know what I know," replied
Grimstead, and he told the whole story
again for Farley's benefit, not omitting
the slightest detail. When he had fin-
ished, the police official looked doubt-
fully at Dr. Stoughton. This sort of a
case was outside of his own ken.

"Frankly, I am puzzled over all this,"
began the physician, looking more close-
ly at the face of the dead man. "It is
very evident that — Hello!" he broke
off abruptly. "This is devilish queer,
I must say!"

Taking a small magnifying glass
from his bag, he bent over the body and
examined the throat carefully.

"This is the most extraordinary thing
that has ever come within my medical
knowledge," he said gravely.

"What is it?" asked his companion
curiously.

"When I first looked at Carey," ex-
plained the physician, "there were no
marks whatever upon his throat. It
was strangely white in contrast with his
blackened face. But now look!"

He handed the glass to Grimstead.
The newspaperman looked, started, and
then looked again. Without a word, he

handed the glass to Farley, who looked
through it long and hard. Then he
whistled softly. *

"Finger prints!" he said laconically.

"Exactly," agreed Dr. Stoughton.
'They have come out on the skin like a
rash. Carey's throat looked like an un-
developed negative when I first looked
at it. But now, through some queer
phenomenon, it has been 'developed.' "

A little silence followed his words.

"Did you, perhaps, notice anything
else when you looked through the
glass?" continued Dr. Stoughton.

"What, for instance?" asked Grim-
stead.

"Those finger prints on his throat
were those of a woman," said Dr.
Stoughton. "They are much too small
to have been inflicted by a man."

"Good Lord !" said Farley.

"But they couldn't have been inflicted
by a woman," observed Grimstead sa-
tirically, "because you said my story
was an hallucination. Beings that fig-
ure in hallucinations cannot commit real
murders, can they?"

"Humph!" grunted Dr. Stoughton.
Then, with a puzzled frown: "What
do you think of all this, Grimstead?"

"There is only one way to think." re-
plied the newspaperman. "Carey un-
doubtedly murdered his wife and came
back to visit the scene of his crime, as
murderers from time immemorial have
done. His wife's ghost was in this
room. I am as certain of that as I am
that my name is Grimstead. It was
Selma Carey's fingers that reached from
the grave and strangled her husband."

"Bosh!" ejaculated the physician.
"Such things are impossible !"

Grimstead shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing is impossible nowadays.
Doctor," he said.

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

By Christopher B. Booth

THE leaky radiator of a flivver
was responsible for the discov-
ery. Judson Wheaton, a farmer
living in the lower end of the
county, was driving to the city when he
shut off his overheated engine and
climbed down into the dusty roadway.
Some distance from the highway stood
the Thatcher farmhouse, bleak, ugly
and deserted, its pitiful shabbiness
charitably hidden by the thick foilage of
many maple trees.

Wheaton cursed again that people
should build their houses so far from
the thoroughfare.

"Now I've got to tramp all th' way
up that hill for water," he lamented.
A stranger in the neighborhood, he did
not know that the place was deserted
until he reached the top of the knoll
and saw the windows staring vacantly
down upon him.

"Just my luck!" he mourned; "prob-
ably not a bucket on the place."

The hapless driver made his way
along the weed-choked path around the
side of the building. Suddenly, rooted
in his tracks by horror, he let forth a
yell of surprised terror.

Underneath one of the large trees
was the body of a man, face turned to
the sky. The eyes bulged wide and the
muscles of the face were frozen into an
expression of wild and livid fright.

A few feet from the body stood a
smart limousine, an automobile of ex-
pensive make; on the doors were the
neatly stenciled initials "K. A. W."

Wheaton raced down the hill, stood
in the centre of the roadway as he

B. M. — Sept.— 4

flapped his long arms up and down in
a frantic signal to the motorist who was,
at that moment, approaching from the
north.

"Dead man up at that house!" he
shrieked. "Dead man — think he's mur-
dered !"

Brake bands protesting, Dr. John
Lake, a young practicing physician of
a nearby suburb, brought his car to a
grinding halt.

"Dead man you say? Up at the
Thatcher place? That's strange; it's
been deserted for two or three years."

He eyed Wheaton with appraising
eye ; there were a number of road-
houses along the highway which took no
cognizance of the federal statute framed
by a certain Mr. Volstead ; the man was
not intoxicated.

"I'm a doctor," he added. "I'll go up
and see if he is dead."

Wheaton shivered.

"Oh, he's dead all right; I ain't a
doctor, but — I saw his face; I think he
was — murdered."

"You don't live hereabouts, do you?"
queried Dr. Lake. "Well, I would ad-
vise you to stick around until the cor-
oner is called ; it may save you another
trip. Let's go up and look things over."

"I — I've seen enough, thank you,"
said Wheaton, but, nevertheless, he
plodded up the hill at Dr. Lake's heels.

As the two men reached the open
spot in the trees. Lake's eyes widened
in surprise as he caught sight of the
luxurious limousine.

"Phew I" he whistled. "This is some-
what out of the ordinary; I thought it
was just a common tramp."

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

He hurried his stepss as he reached
the body, the doctor's head jerked for-
ward in astonishment.

"Great Heavens!" he whispered in
amazed awe. "Doctor Waugh !"

In the medical world the name of Dr.
Kensaw Arlington Waugh was one to
conjure with. A specialist of renown,
he had lectured at the medical school
from which Doctor Lake had been
graduated and, although he did not
know him except as a student would
be expected to know a class instructor,
it made death more of a personal matter
and, for a moment, shattered his pro-
fessional calm. He had always had a
great admiration for the somewhat ec-
centric specialist.

"What a horrible death !" shuddered
Dr. Lake. "I never saw such an ex-
pression on a human face!"

Mastering his emotions, he became
at once" his professional self. With deft
fingers he searched _for signs of vio-
lence; to his perplexity there was no
wound, no laceration, not a single
mark. Even ihe clothing bore no evi-
dence of a violent struggle.

He decided that some instantaneous
poison must have been used, probably
cyanide, which, while it acts so quickly
that the victim's life is snapped like a
tight-drawn thread, seizes the body in
one quick, horrible convulsion and
leaves the muscles as of stone. But he
failed to find the. tell-tale rigidity of
tissues which he had expected.

"Not cyanide, that is certain," he said
in abstracted monologue. "Confounded
queer business, eh, Wheaton ?"

Farmer Weaton stood some feet
away, back turned ; it was apparent
that he had no morbid liking for grue-
some things.

Dr. Lake bent forward, his attention
attracted by a faint abrasion on Dr.
Waugh 's neck, a place less than two
inches long under the chin and slightly
below the ear where the skin had been

rubbed nearly raw by some rough sur-
face. Shaking his head in frank be-
wilderment, he walked over to Farmer
Wheaton.

"Wheaton," he said sternly, "why
did you tell me that this man was mur-
dered?"

Startled by the accusing, suspicious
note in the young doctor's voice, the
farmer flushed.

"Because," he said angrily, "a man
with an expression like THAT on his
face never died a natural death. Why
— you don't mean to tell me that he
wasn't murdered?"

"There's not a single mark of vio-
lence, Mr. Wheaton."

"Mebbe not, Doctor, but his face
... it looks ... it looks — " His
voice dropped to a sepulchral whisper.
". . . like he had been scared to
death 1"

"Nonsense!" snapped Dr. Lake im-
patiently. "Men aren't scared to death
— outside of book covers."

"You're a doctor, sir; I guess you
know," admitted the farmer humbly.

Dr. Lake absently creased hi9 leather
automobile gauntlets.

"Something devilish mysterious
about this." he said. "What could Dr.
Waugh be doing out here at an old
deserted farmhouse? A first-rate mys-
tery, I call it. I tell you what you do :
There's a farm a quarter of a mile or
so down the road. You go down there
and telephone to Coroner Hopkins. Ill
look around a bit and wait for him. I
feel quite an interest in this ; Dr. Waugh
was one of my instructors at medical
college. I might be able to help a bit;
the coroner is a feeble old man with a
brain about as palsied as his hands.
I'm afraid that if we depend on him,
the law will be a long time in getting
this thing solved."

As Farmer Wheaton made his way
back to the road again, Dr. Lake began
a survey of the premises.

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

He mounted the rotting porch steps,
the boards creaking under his weight.
The branches of the trees, moved by a
breeze, rustled against the weather-
boarding of the old house.

"A fine, cheerful place at night, I'll
bet," he muttered. "Somehow this be-
gins to get on my nerves."

The door which led into the tiny re-
ception hall was ajar. From this old-
fashioned entrance were three doors
leading into as many rooms. As he
opened the sagging door to the right,
Dr. Lake paused in startled bewilder-
ment, wondering if his imagination was
playing him a trick.

The wall between two rooms had
been ripped out, making of them one
long apartment. The debris, chunks of
plastering and scraps of lath, still lit-
tered the floor.

Across the length of the enlongated
room had been laid what seemed a
miniature railway track, perhaps half
the width of a standard gauge railroad.
The light steel rails were bolted to
heavy pieces of lumber which served as
cross-ties.

Resting on the rails were two cars,
about seven feet in height, apparently
constructed of steel. From where he
stood in the doorway, Dr. Lake could
see the facing end of one of the cars;
from it protruded hundreds of sharp
points, almost needle-like in their sharp-
ness.

"Now wouldn't this stump you !" ex-
claimed the doctor. "I'll say that is a
queer business — damned queer!"

In a confusion of uncertainty he ad-
vanced cautiously. The steel cars stood
perhaps five feet apart. As he stepped
nearer another gasp of surprise escaped
his lips. The end of one of the cars,
hidden from view until this moment,
was caved in; the gaping hole exposed
a crude framework of light lumber.

"Just a toy," mused Dr. Lake. "Pa-
pier mache, or I miss my guess — just

cardboard painted to look like steel."

He examined the sharp steel points;
they bent back harmlessly at the touch
of his finger — also merely cardboard.

Closer examination showed, geared to
the rear wheels of both cars, a toy
motor such as might have delighted
the heart of a child at Christmas time.
The electric current for the motors was
supplied by two wires which ran along
the floor and connected with the track.
The wires led to the wall and contact
was completed by means of a massive
switch which might easily have carried
a high-voltage current instead of
the weak stream of electricity which
was generated by the dozen dry-cell
batteries hidden in an adjoining
closet.

Dr. Lake threw in the switch, the tiny
motors hummed slowly and the mys-
terious cars edged forward; edged is
the proper word, for the motion was
barely perceptible. The cars made a
speed of only one foot per minute.

"Huh! \Juttiest outfit I ever saw,"
Lake mused. "Dr. Waugh dead as a
hammer and this — this damned foolish-
ness — I wonder what the answer is?"

As he slowly paced the floor, hands
deep in his pockets and his face creased
by thoughtful lines, he was suddenly
aware of a further detail. Fastened
from the ceiling was an iron ring and
from the ring dangled a short length
of rope, the end frayed as if parted
under heavy strain. Fastened to the
floor, in direct line with that in the
ceiling, was another steel ring.

The young doctor started suddenly.
. "By Jove !" he gasped. "Somebody
was tied in the middle of that track —
feet to the floor, rope from his neck
to the ceiling."

He remembered the faint abrasion
under Dr. Waugh's chin ; a rope could
have made that mark!

"Great God! The fiends!" shouted
Dr. Lake, his voice echoing through

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

the empty rooms. "They tied poor old
Dr. Waugh to this track and — "

He shuddered at the picture which
his mind swiftly drew — the picture of a
man, ignorant of the make believe
harmlessness, bound helpless as those
cars creeped upon him.

The floor was thick with accumu-
lated dust and the dirt film was broken
by footprints, blurred in the spot about
the steel ring in the floor, as if some-
one had nervously scraped his feet back
and forth. The young doctor's heart
leaped with hope as he saw, also, the
clear-cut impression of a man's hand
spread flat, fingers and thumb extended.

"Here's where I turn detective,"
mused Lake, remembering the camera
in his car. "Ill try my hand at a bit
of photography. I've a notion that the
hand, fingerprints and all, will photo-
graph very well." ■

At that moment a bit of sunshine,
breaking through an open space be-
tween the maple trees, streamed into
the room, lighting the shadows under
the strange make-believe cars and glint-
ing against a bit of yellow metal that
lay there. Dr. Lake reached for it and
found it to be a stickpin of rather fan-
tastic design, something European with-
out a doubt — the gold fashioned into a
claw which grasped a blood ruby.

"Now," breathed Lake with satisfac-
tion, "if I'm going to turn detective,
I think I've got something to work
on."

Lake had just finished taking his pho-
tograph of the fingerprints — and a
glance at Dr. Waugh's slim, tapering
fingers was sufficient to tell him that
the impression in the dust was not that
of the dead man's hand — when Coroner
Hopkins, a bearded old patriarch who
had held his office for many years, ar-
« rived, peering nearsightedly through a
pair of thick-lensed glasses and shaking
his head hopelessly.

"Oh, yes," he greeted Dr. Lake;

"you're the young doctor from Ala-
mont. They tell me that Doctor — Doc-
tor Waugh is — is dead. Terrible busi-
ness — can't understand it— what would
Dr. Waugh be doing out here ? Answer
me that! Terrible business— rcan't un-
derstand it. And — what the devil is
this contraption?"

His eyes, for the first time, caught
sight of the cars. The young doctor ex-
plained what he had found.

"I am told that you have already ex-
amined, Doctor — the body," pursued the
aged coroner. "What do you find?"

Dr. Lake told him.

"Humph!" mourned the coroner
sadly. "Queer business; I knew Dr.
Waugh by reputation — a wonderful
specialist, he was. Great loss to the
medical profession — can't understand
it."

"What do you propose to do?" ven-
tured Dr. Lake.

Coroner Hopkins shook his head.

"I'm not so young as I used to be,
young man. I generally name an as-
sistant to perform an autopsy."

"But," protested Dr. Lake, "won't
you proceed with some sort of an in-
vestigation ?"

"I'm not a detective, young man ; I'm
the coroner. I shall perform the au-
topsy, turn my findings over to the
state's attorney and examine what wit-
nesses can be found. So far, Mr. — er
— Wheaton, who found the body, is the
only witness.**

Dr. Lake frowned impatiently.

"But, Mr. Coroner," he insisted,
"there's a mystery here to be cleared
up; we are outside of the city where ex-
pert detective talent is available. Of
course the reporters for the city news-
papers will take a hand at Sherlocking,
but really something should be done."

"What would you suggest?" de-
manded the coroner dryly.

D,r. Lake accepted the invitation
eagerly.

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

"If you would deputize me, I would
be glad to serve," he replied. "Dr.
Waugh was one of my instructors at
medical school and I feel a very deep
personal interest in this case. I should
like to see no stone unturned — "

"You're deputized, my young
friend," cut in Coroner Hopkins. "Be
sworn."

Dr. John Lake jeopardized his slim
but growing practice by abruptly de-
serting his patients and plunging head-
long into the Dr. Waugh mystery. He
rushed to the city to delve into the in-
cidents which had preceded the spe-
cialist's death. Nor was he alone; a
small army of reporters was encoun-
tered at every turn ; he bumped into
feature writers at every step. The city
editors had gone frantic over the Dr.
Waugh mystery; they printed columns
upon columns of entertaining descrip-
tion and fruitless deductions; they
plastered their pages with photographs
of the Thatcher farmhouse and the
mysterious "steel" cars.

The real estate agent who had the
renting of the Thatcher farm in charge
was able to throw no light on the mys-
tery. He had rented the place by
phone. He had received a money order
for a year's rent, sent in the name of
"Julius Smith." The lessee had never
showed up to sign the papers. The
Julius Smiths listed in the directory
furnished ample proof that it must be
some other "Julius Smith."

The autopsy verified Dr. Lake's first
examination; there had been no vio-
lence done, no poison administered;
there was no clot on the brain, no heart
lesion.

It remained for Dr. Lake, armed
with the stickpin which he had found
at the Thatcher farmhouse, to find the
only real clue and, for reasons of his

own, this clue never got to the news-
papers.

Dr. Waugh had no family; he lived
alone in a house on Belden Avenue, at-
tended by a servant named Samuels, a
reticent and rather wooden-headed and
non-observing man of near sixty.

The body of Dr. Waugh had been
discovered on Thursday morning.
Samuels related, for the benefit of Dr.
Lake and reporters alike, that on Tues-
day Dr. Waugh had brought home a
young man of very shabby and dis-
reputable appearance. The young man
had worn a bandage about his eyes and
Dr. Waugh had explained to Samuels
that he was a patient, suffering from
temporary blindness. This was un-
usual, for Dr. Waugh seldom treated
charity patients and never at his
home.

Samuels, due to the bandage about
the young man's face, could not supply
any sort of an adequate description;
about all that he was able to say was
that he believed the man's hair had
been brown and that his chin was black
with an untidy stubble of beard.

On Wednesday afternoon Dr.
Waugh had dispatched Samuels to the
bank with a check for five thousand
dollars. This amount, in cash,
Samuels had brought home and turned
it over to the doctor. No trace of the
money was found ; it had vanished
utterly.

Still later on Thursday Samuels was
dispatched on another errand. When
he departed, Dr. Waugh and his blind
patient were in the house; when he re-
turned both were gone. The specialist's
chauffeur furnished another link in the
far from complete chain.

Dr. Waugh seldom drove his own
car, but, at the time he left his Belden
Avenue home for the last time, he had
summoned his car 1 from the nearby
public garage where it was kept, dis-
missed the chauffeur, saying that he

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

preferred to do his own driving that
afternoon.

When Dr. Lake and Samuels were
alone, the young doctor produced the
stickpin which he had found in the
Thatcher farmhouse.

"Samuels," he said, "did this belong
to Dr. Waugh?"

"No, sir," said Samuels promptly,
"but I've seen it before."

"Where?"

"Well, sir, I ain't much hand to no-
tice things, but I did notice that pin.
The blind young man that the doctor
brought home with him was in a ter-
rible condition, sir ; his shoes were very
badly broken and his clothing hung to
him only in shreds. His linen was ac-
tually black, sir; he actually looked the
tramp — a bum. Yet I noticed that he
wore that stickpin ; perhaps the reason
I noticed it was that I could tell by the
glance at it that it was a bit valuable
and I wondered why he didn't pawn it
and get himself a clean shirt and a pair
of shoes."

Dr. Lake grinned triumphantly.

"My hunch wins!" he exulted.
"Something told me the minute I found
this pin that it was going to be a clue.
By the way, Samuels, don't say any-
thing to the newspaper men about this
stickpin. I want to work this out in
my own way — if I can."

"Very well, sir," agreed Samuels
obediently.

After a time the city editors began to
lose interest in the Dr. Waugh case;
the city detective bureau which had
tried to render some little assistance
soon found troubles of their own more
pressing. Yet once and sometimes
twice a week there appeared in the
want-ads columns of the newspapers,
under the "Lost and Found" classifi-
cation, this advertisement:

- FOUND — Gold stickpin, animal's claw hold-
ing a stone. Will be returned to owner for
cost of this advertisement.

The advertisement brought no re-
sponse.

After several weeks had passed, Dr.
Lake called upon Coroner Hopkins.

"Mr. Coroner," he explained, "I've
still got this stickpin that I found out
at the Thatcher farmhouse, and I want
your ^permission to keep h a while
longer; I want to wear it in my neck-
tie just as long as you will allow me to
keep it."

Coroner Hopkins stared at the young
doctor in perplexity.

"I fail to grasp just what you mean,"
he retorted. "If you are asking me to
give you property which — "

"No, I don't want the stickpin, Mr.
Coroner; but it belonged to the man
who knows how Dr. Waugh died. He
wore that pin when he was ragged and
perhaps hungry. I want to wear that
pin three hundred and sixty-five days
in the year and ten years if need be and
give its owner the chance to see it in
my tie. If the law of averages breaks
my way, and if he's still in the city, he's
going to see it — and the man who
thought enough of that pin to wear
rags rather than pawn it will make
some effort to get it back."

"Oh, I see," snorted the coroner not
without a sneer; "I see; you are still
playing detective. Well, you are a per-
sistent young fool, but it occurs to me
that you'd better be spending a little
more time with your medical practice.

"Then I may keep the pin for a while
longer?" asked Dr. Lake, eagerly.

"I'd forgotten you had it," grunted
the coroner. "By thunder. Doc, I do
admire persistency!"

* - * *

Dr. Waugh 's death occurred in June ;
it was the following September when
Dr. Lake, his automobile in the repair
shop with a cracked crank case, was
forced to make a trip to the city, via
trolley. His business took him to the
north side and he boarded a crowded

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

surface car at the interurban station.
He did not observe that a well-dressed
young man — apparently young despite
the snow-white streaks through his
hair — who had been going in the
opposite direction, wheeled suddenly
about and swung aboard just as the
car got into motion.

Passengers were packed on the rear
platform like proverbial sardines, and
it might have easily been accidental that
the young man lurched against John
Lake just as the latter fished a hand-
ful of small coins from his pocket to
pay his fare. The money fell in a
shower to the floor and Lake glanced
back in anger.

"I beg your pardon, sir," murmured
the young man in polite accents as he
stooped to aid in collecting the spill.

"My fault," he added. "Mighty
sorry; matter of fact, though it's a
shame the way they pack the cars —
seven cent fare, too."

Lake growled agreement on this
point.

"Fine weather, isn't it?" pursued the
young man — he was perhaps in his
middle thirties — in the trite manner of
the man who wished to drum up a con-
versation. Lake, ordinarily a friendly
soul, was not in a conversational mood ;
he was on the point of turning his back
coldly, when he saw that the stranger's
eyes were feasting hungrily on the stick-
pin; his heart skipped a beat.

"Yes," he agreed, "fine weather, in-
deed. Live here?"

The stranger nodded.

"I was just noticing that pin in your
tie," he broke out eagerly. "Reminds
me of one I saw once in Europe — be-
longed to a friend of mine; odd, isn't
it?"

"Yes," Lake laconically agreed ; "I
presume that it is a trifle unusual ; sev-
eral people have commented on it. I
got it in a rather odd way, too."

The other man waited.

"Yes, bought it from a fellow who
was down and out — got it rather cheap,
but since I've had it I've become quite
fond of it."

"Oh," said the other in evident dis-
appointment, "you wouldn't care to
part with it then ?"

"Probably not for what it's worth."

"W-what do you consider it —
worth?" asked the white-haired young
man.

"I hadn't thought of pricing it ; did
you want to buy it?"

"Well, frankly, yes; you see I don't
care much for jewelry, but when I saw
that pin — er — its counterpart in Eu-
rope — I fell quite in love with it. I might
be willing to pay your price. Name it."

"I don't believe I'd care to part with
it for less than five hundred — and that's
more than it's worth, probably twice
over."

"I'll take it," replied the stranger
with a contented sigh. "If you'll get
off the car with me, we'll go to the bank
and get the money."

"Very well," agreed Dr. Lake. "What
bank?"

"The Liberty National."

At the next block Dr. Lake and his
companion left the car and Lake, sud-
denly remembering that he must tele-
phone that he would be late for an ap-
pointment, hurried into a telephone
booth at a corner drug store. He called
the detective bureau and hastily ex-
plained matters.

When Dr. Lake and Justin Graham,
as the young man had introduced him-
self, reached the Liberty National, two
plainclothes men met them at the en-
trance. At a signal from Lake, they
seized Graham's arms.

"You are under arrest," one of them
announced with proper official solem-
nity.

Young Graham's eyes widened and
an unmistakable pallor crept into his
cheeks.

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

"Under arrest!" he echoed. "What

for?"

"For the murder of Dr. Kensaw Ar-
lington Waugh," declared John Lake.

Graham took a grip on himself; he
glanced at the stickpin in the doctor's
tie and smiled.

"I see," he said, smiling wryly,
"you're rather clever. Well, suppose
we go to the station and talk it over.
I'll tell you about it — but it wasn't
murder."

Ill

In the office of the Chief of Detec-
tives sat the Chief, Dr. Lake and Justin
Graham. The prisoner was, perhaps,
the coolest of the three, for both the
Chief and Lake were excitedly eager —
especially Lake.,

"I'm glad to get it off my mind ; glad
to get it all cleared up," Graham began
without urging. "I'd better begin right
at the beginning and tell you the whole
thing. I'd be a fool to deny knowledge
of the affair, for I read the newspaper
accounts and I know that someone
found and photographed my finger-
prints; I suppose you still have them.
It would be only silly for me to make a
denial, for that would indicate that I
have something to fear; I haven't."

He paused and turned to Dr. Lake.

"I remember you now from the pic-
tures that appeared in the papers at the
time; not very good pictures either.
You are the doctor who first examined
Dr. Waugh's body. You found no evi-
dence of foul play, did you?"

"You're the man who's being ques-
tioned, not I," reminded Lake curtly.

"Yes, that's true," agreed Graham
with a short laugh. "But you didn't;
you found no wound, no laceration, no
evidence of a blow being struck, no
poison, no diseased organism — nothing
but failure of the heart to function.
Isn't that true?"

"Go ahead with your story," growled
Lake.

"I will," pursued Graham, "hut I
just wanted to remind you, in the be-
ginning, that you are accusing me of
murder when you have no evidence
that a murder was committed."

"We have evidence that something
queer happened out at the Thatcher
farm," said John Lake with spirit.

"Yes, that's true, and I'm going to
clear that up for you; it's a mighty
queer business, as you say. Well, here
goes; I'll make it as much to the point
as possible.

"On the sixth of June I was broke
and hungry — starving. I could starve
but I couldn't beg. My life was a
failure ; I was in debt. It began when I
wandered out to Lincoln Park; I was
walking along the lagoon and, as I came
to a bridge a couple passed me ; they
were talking about the bridge.

"'That's "Suicide Bridge" and
they're going to tear it down next
month; more than fifty people have
jumped from it since it was built during
the Chicago World's Fair.'

"Until that moment I had not thought
of suicide, but the idea took hold of me
and, try as I would, I could not shake
it off. I tried to walk away from 'Sui-
cide Bridge,' but the power of sugges-
tion was too strong. A park police-
man came along; 'Don't do it, buddy,'
he said. I pretended that I didn't know
what he meant and he went on. When
he disappeared I began to climb the
steps to the bridge. A voice behind me
stopped me.

"I turned around and there was a
well-dressed man of about sixty, with
a close-cropped vandyke beard, hurry-
ing toward me — "

"Dr. Waugh!" interjected Lake.

"Exactly," agreed Graham. "I wait-
ed for him to come up.

" 'Why are you going to kill your-
self?' he asked me.

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

" 'None of your damn business,' I
told him.

" 'Come with me,' he said ; 'you need
a square meal.'

"I went along with him. After the
meal, as we sat in a quiet corner of the
rather cheap restaurant, he made me his
proposition. As near as I can remem-
ber it, he said:

" 'Life means nothing to you, for you
were about to kill yourself. I want to
make a bargain with you. I want to
engage in- a sort of an adventure; it
may cost you your life, it may not —
you'll have to take that chance. If you
live through it, you will be five thousand
dollars the richer; if it costs you your
life the five thousand will be disposed
of as you see fit. That's my propo-
sition; I shall tell you no more. Take
it or leave it.'

"I thought it over. He was right;
life meant nothing to me. He was offer-
ing me the chance to at least quit the
world with a clean slate — it would
square up my debts and a little besides.
I accepted his proposition.

"He telephoned for his automobile
and, while we waited, took me into the
washroom of the restaurant where he
bandaged my eyes.

" 'I'll have to blindfold you,' he ex-
plained ; 'it's part of the agreement.'

"When we got into the car we drove
for a short time and stopped. We went
up some steps ; it was the house where
he lived. I heard him tell a servant,
whose name was Samuels, that I was
blind and that he was going to treat me.
I might as well have been blind, for
there wasn't a ray of light through those
bandages.

"Almost at once he had me undress
and put me through a physical exami-
nation, especially testing my heart.

" 'Sound as an ox,' I heard him say
after he used the stethoscope. 'Perfect
heart j that's fine.'

"I spent the night at the house and

the next day he sent to the bank for
the five thousand dollars. An hour or
so after that he gave me some decent
clothes — some of his I think they were,
for we were of about the same build —
and led me out to his automobile. He
drove himself and I sat on the front
seat with him. We went downtown
and he allowed me to remove the ban-
dages from my eyes. Then I went into
a bank — alone — and deposited the five
thousand dollars with instructions as
to where to send it if I did not call for
it within a week. I got back into the
car with him and he seemed much re-
lieved.

" 'I was afraid you'd try to give me
the slip after you had the money,' he
said. That hadn't occurred to me; I
had too much curiosity anyway — I had
to see it through.

"After we left the downtown dis-
tricts he wrapped the bandages on again
and we drove for a long time. I could
tell by the atmosphere that ft was night-
fall. We had left the boulevards and
were jolting over rough country roads.
At last we stopped and he led me
through high grass and weeds ; my feet
got all tangled up in them.

"He took me into a house and I knew
by the musty smell that no one had
lived there for some time and I knew
by the hollow way that our footsteps
echoed through the place that it was
unfurnished. We had not walked very
far when I stumbled over something
which barked my shin. Before I knew
what happened, a rope dropped over my
neck and was drawn tight. Instinctive-
ly I clawed at the thing which was cut-
ting into the flesh of fny neck but he
seized my arms and, although I strug-
gled, he succeeded in tying .them be-
hind me. Of course that made me
helpless. I couldn't offer much re-
sistance when he grabbed my legs and
tied my ankles — tied my feet to the
floor.

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

"I hadn't bargained for anything like
this and, to be frank, I was very much
afraid — afraid of an unknown some-
thing that I could not see. I imagine
that I screamed in my fright, but he
only laughed at me.

" 'Shout all you want,' he said ; 'no
one can hear you.'

"Then he took off the bandages. The
room was in semi-darkness, lighted only
by two flickering candles and, for a
moment, I could not make things out
clearly. You know what I saw — those
railroad cars, looming up in the gloom
and the candlelight shining on those
points which stuck out from the end
of each car. I was tied, standing up-
right, in the middle of the track. I
couldn't move, for the rope about my
neck kept me in one position.

" 'Great God !' I shouted. 'What are
you going to do to me ?'

" 'I am going to kill you,' he said.
'Oh, come, my young friend ; you were
willing enough to die yesterday. I am
cheating you of nothing; you will get
the five thousand dollars — and death.

" 'Perhaps you realize what will hap-
pen,' he went on. 'Those steel cars will
move toward you at the rate of one foot
per minute; in fifteen minutes those
steel points will prick your flesh and
then — they will slowly, slowly — Ha! I
see you undersand — *

"He was right ; I did understand. I
won't burden you gentlemen with the
horrors of it. I won't try to tell you
the torment that was mine — I couldn't
and I don't like to think of it. I —
sometimes I dream of it now; it's hell!

"I begged him to shoot me — anything.
I knew that he was a madman — some
impossible creature in real life stepped
right out from a page of Poe. As I
begged for mercy he snapped on the
electric switch and I could see those
cars vibrate a little ; they seemed to leap
toward me.

"He left the room without a word.

leaving me there with that devilish
death trap, as ingenious a thing of tor-
ture as the 'Pit and the Pendulum.'

"It could not have been long, but it
seemed like hours. At last those cars
were close enough that, had my arms
been free, I could have reached out and
touched them. I began to pray and as
I prayed I strained at my bonds until
the rope cut into my wrists and into the
flesh of my neck. I was slowly chok-
ing myself to death and, just as I was
losing consciousness, I had the sensa-
tion of falling. Suddenly the breath
rushed back into my bursting lungs and
the blackness before my eyes cleared.
I had. indeed, fallen; the rope from
the ceiling must have been very rotten
for it had parted under the strain. The
weight of my body had smashed in one
of those fiendish make-believe cars.

"Something pricked my wrists ; it was
a nail and I patiently worked away,
severing strand after strand, until my
numbed arms were free. It was then
but the matter of a moment to loosen
the knots which bound my ankles.

"There isn't much more to tell, gen-
tlemen ; I — "

"But Dr. Waugh — " eagerly broke in
John Lake. "How did he—"

Young Graham smiled shrewdly.

"Oh, yes, I'm getting to that, doctor.
When I slipped out of the house, Dr.
Waugh was sitting in his limousine,
calmly smoking and — reading! In a
sudden burst of anger, I made up my
mind to kill him!"

"Ah !" breathed the Chief of Detec-
tives; "so you admit — "

"That I killed him? Indeed, no,
Chief," denied Justin Graham. "I—
er — changed my mind.

"The door of the limousine was open
and I slipped across the grass and had
seized him before he knew it. Even as
my fingers were about his throat I re-
alized that he must be an irresponsible
lunatic and that there could be no jus-

The Deviltry of Dr. Waugh

tice in slaying him. I decided to truss
him up, drive him to the city and turn
him over to the authorities that a test
might be made of his sanity.

"He begged me not to kill him and — *
then he told me.

"He told me that he was a physician ;
he said that he had always taken the
position that a normal, sound man could
literally be scared to death. He told
me that other physicians differed with
him, arguing that so-called death from
fright could occur only when there
was a weak heart.

"The desire to prove his contention
became an 'obsession with Dr. Waugh
and he decided to prove it. He rented
this farm, and set up his play railroad
and began to search for a subject. He
was hunting, in fact, when he stopped
me from jumping from 'Suicide Bridge.'
He justified himself on the ground that
I would have ended my life anyhow and
that I had lost nothing.

"When I realized that Dr. Waugh
was not, after all, an irresponsible
maniac, my anger returned. That a '
physician whose life should be dedi-
cated to the relief of human suffering
should subject any man — regardless of
how lightly he valued life — to the in-
human mental torture that I had en-
dured, all for the sake of proving a
silly, unimportant medical theory!

'T had pinned Dr. Waugh to the
ground. There was a rope in his tool
box. Qifickly I passed one end of it
about his neck and fastened it to a tree ;
the other end I tied to his feet and to
the rear axle of the automobile."

"Great God !" cried John Lake. "You
were going to —

-Justin Graham did not answer.
"I got into the car," he continued;
"I put my foot on the electric starter
button; the engine roared and then — I
shut off the engine, but — "

Doctor Lake jumped to his feet.
"But Dr. Waugh was dead!" he

finished the sentence. "You killed him ;
you murdered him — in cold blood ! You
— you scared him to death!"

Graham met the accusing gaze
calmly.

"I think that most doctors will con-
tend that a man — a man with a normal
heart — cannot be frightened to death,"
he said quietly.

•Doctor Lake eyed the prisoner in-
tently.

"You're a medic yourself," he ac-
cused.

"Do you think so?" smiled Graham.

"Do I think so?" thundered John
Lake. "I know so! Naturally I have
read between the lines of your story —
just as you intended that I should. Oh,
you're a clever fiend! You gave Dr.
Waugh the same chance that he gave
you ; you tested his heart as he lay there
on the ground — probably you used his
own stethoscope. You got into the au-
tomobile, started the motor with the
deliberate intention of — of letting Dr.
Waugh prove his own theory. It was
deliberate murder!",

"1 hardly think you can prove that
in — in court," suggested Graham.

"I know damned well I can't," shout-
ed Lake. "You, as cold-blooded a slayer
as a man who ever fired a pistol, are
safe from the law. So far as the law
is concerned, the Waugh case is closed
— he died from heart failure. Here's
your stickpin. Get out 1"

The Chief of Detectiyes was nodding
his agreement with Lake's position ; the
Chief was eyeing Grahanf curiously.

"Hum!" he rumbled. "Mr. Graham
has your — er — hair been white long?"

"Since — since that night," Justin
Graham replied.

The door closed.

"Do you know, Lake, I don't blame
Graham — much," muttered the Chief.

John Lake stared out of the window.

"Well, Chief," he said, "perhaps I
don't either — much."

"The cave!" 1 shouted, pressing the knife into her hand and pointing to a nearby

cavity. — Page 69

Daughter of

By Harry C.

THAT last night in Marquesan
waters, as Cleaves and I sat on
the fore-deck of the anchored
Jesbel, listening to the talk of
Leaping Fire, the Polynesian midship-
man, the Bay of Traitors was lit with an
eerie glow. Along Taha-uka, from the
rockbound shore where the surf hurled
its futile rage upon a Bastile of dun-
colored stone, to the somnolent lights of
Hivaoa dreaming beneath the black
thunders of Temetiu, legions of phos-
phorus battled in green strife.

.... "Yonder is the isle of Taoha,
Menikcs," Leaping Fire was saying,
pointing with his tattooed arm toward
what seemed a mass of stone rising upon
the moonlit night, his speech punctuated
by the creaking of the boom as it swung
with the sjide and heave of the lazy
rollers. "In the days before the Chris-
tian God came, when Po, the Power of
Darkness, ruled the islands, the sea-
robbers of Tahati used to hide their
treasures there — somewhere near the
High Place and the Vale Where Dead
Men Walk."

"The Vale Where Dead Men Walk,"
I echoed. "What is that?"

"A Valley below the High Place.
From the sacrificial Altar of Po the
old chiefs used to hurl their victims into
the gorge — in the days when the island
was called Bloody Taoha ..."

Once a Polynesian always a Polyne-
sian, and in the South Sea Islander there
still lurks a desire for the taste of
human flesh. "And I imagined that as he
spoke Leaping Fire could again hear.

the Pigeon

Hervey, Jr.

not without joy, the savage throbbing
of rawhide drums in the dank, purple
valleys of Bloody Taoha.

"Is the island still inhabited?" TlTis
from Cleaves.

"Yes. Years ago there were more
than a thousand warriors on Taoha, but
with the white man came plagues and
wars — until now there are less than fifty.
Mahuma is the chief, but he is. slowly
drinking himself to death with Kava.
Ah, Menikes, the history of Taoha, the
dying island is written in blood — and
the future . . . But who knows the fu-
ture?"

"I'd like to visit the island," observed
Cleaves.

"Do not go to Taoha," warned Leap-
ing Fire, "It is accursed. All die upon
Taoha. And some say — " He paused.

"What?" I urged.

"Some say that the spirits of the Ta-
hatian pirates return from under the
earth to guard their treasures ..."

Cleaves and I gazed seaward to the
isle of tragic history, a bulk of stone
that bared its nakedness to the low-hung
tropic stars.

"Lay you two to one I can beat you
swimming to the island, Rundel," spoke
up Cleaves.

I smiled. "Take you up."

"It is two miles awayl" protested
Leaping Fire. "And in the bay are
mako and feke — fierce, man-devouring
sharks and devil-fish I"

But we would not listen to him ; the
tales of hidden loot and crimson deeds
had stirred our blood.

"I'm for the swim, sharks or no
sharks." said I, without bravado, for I

Daughter of the Pigeon

did not realize the danger. "And as
long as I've been in the tropics I have
run across only one devil-fish. I'll tell
you, Cleaves, we'll see who can reach
the High Place first, you taking one end
of the island and I the other, equalizing
the distance. What do you say?"

"You do not know the way to — " be-
gan the Polynesian.

"Perhaps," interposed Cleaves. "But
you will tell us. Moreover, you and a
couple of the crew will follow in a
whale-boat and wait on the beach to
bring us back. The race will be to the
High Place and back to the whale-boat,
the first one reaching the High Place
piling several stones on the altar to let
the other know he's been there."

That was how it began. Down in the
tropics men do queer things. The savage
song of the surf on the coral reefs is a
tune of lawlessness.

Twenty minutes later Cleaves and I,
stripped but for bathing trunks, were
descending the gangway-stairs while
Leaping Fire and others of the crew
lowered a whale-boat.

"I warned you, Menikes," Leaping
Fire called to us sadly from the deck.

And I laughed — for his tales of
piracy and the feel of the amorous wind
on my body had aroused the sleeping
boy withm me.

"Ready?" asked Cleaves— and I
nodded.

Side by side we plunged into the
green bay. The water was mildly cool —
old wine to the muscles. When I re-
turned to the surface I struck out
toward the island, which seemed a mass
of dark-ridden rocks beneath the fiery
Southern Cross. Several yards away,
the phosphorus leaping about him,
was Cleaves, headed for the northern
end of Taoha.

That swim whipped the blood into
every fiber and sinew of the being.
Thinking little of sharks or devil-fish, I
crossed the ruffled Bay of Traitors, and

within an hour, a bit sore of thews-J
confess, I touched the sand on the south-
ern end of the island.

Rarely have I seen such tropical
beauty as on Taoha— cool white sands,
strewn with sea-weed and curious shells ;
forests of mangoes, cocoanut-palms and
bread-fruit; towering basalt rocks,
honeycombed with caves and seeming
riven with bronze as countless cascades
and waterfalls caught the tarnished ar-
gent of the moon.

Following the Polynesian's instruc-
tions, I walked several rods down the
beach and found the nearly obliterated
trail that he had described, a path lead-
ing into a dark hollow.

Across valleys and ridges I sprinted,
in the shadow of dripping rocks where
the atmosphere was saturated with mois-
ture, beneath /m-plants and the crim-
son-flowered /wfM-tree, not infrequently
passing ruined paepaes, meager evi-
dence of the gradual death of the little
island.

After a trot of about a mile I gained
the summit of a hill where red jasmine
and orchids bloomed in profusion, and
halted, breathless, looking upon what I
knew to be the mist-laden Vale Where
Dead Men Walk.

Here the stars seemed to hang lower,
so low that the smell of them was in the
atmosphere. Across the earth depres-
sion, stone ledges rose from the deep-
sunken valley and the moonlight struck
the bare rocks, transforming them from
dead matter into living sheets of light.

The Vale Where Dead Men Walk;
well named; for a vague Something
made me aware of its presence in the air
by an imaginary, nevertheless ponder-
ous, weight upon the lungs ... as if the
souls of the perished sea-robbers surged
back upon the valley.

As I slowly descended the ridge —
slowly because of a strange reluctance
to hurry — I had the uncanny feeling of
one invading the dominion of the dead.

Daughter of the Pigeon

Even the rank odors of the flowers sug-
gested death.

The ascent of the ledges was not with-
out difficulty; footholds were treacher-
ous and more than once the roots of
vines yielded to my weight, leaving me
swinging at dizzy heights ; but after ten
minutes of breathless climbing, I
dragged my full six feet over the edge
of the High Altar and stood upright
beside the Altar of Po.

Evidently Cleaves had not arrived.
The decaying altar was bare. ,

The High Place of Taoha crowned
a g° r g e — a wound that gaped in the
stomach of the earth like the heel-mark
of a giant conqueror. At the bottom of
a sheer drop of ten feet a narrow ledge
clung to the stone walls, winding down
into the orchid and fern-grown canon
where the monster boulders threw their
shadows across the rushing stream. On
the side of the gorge opposite where I
stood, a cave leered blackly from the
rocks, and not far away was the la-
goon, flanked with palm- fronds, a con-
necting link between river and sea. A
mild roar insinuated itself upon the air
— the combined booming of the gorge
stream and the not distant surf.

The savage, lawless splendor exerted
over me an awesome spell and my imagi-
nation, ever eager to slip its leash,
painted sinister figures in the gorge,
ghostly shapes that materialized in the
maw of the black cave.

. Of a sudden the blood began to throb
through my head — for no conjuring of
the fancy had created those forms ; they
were real, moving as phantoms upon the
background of creepers that sprawled
over the walls.

I dropped flat on my stomach, the
touch of my skin upon the moist, cold
stone sending a quick thrill trickling
along my sensory nerves.

The figures, five in number, all lithe
of body with the exception of one,
crawled stealthily out of the gorge, and

when they attained the top of the oppo-
site side were swallowed by the bread-
fruit and cocoanut-palms.

I continued to stare at the trees where
they vanished. Men — islanders from the
color of their naked skins — coming from
the cave. It was rather intriguing, even
insidious, and I immediately determined
to penetrate the cave whose jaws had
spewn them.

As I swung down from the High
Place, dropping on the narrow ledge,
I regretted my hasty action. The wiser
plan would have been to wait for
Cleaves, but I had started^ without him,
and being young, which is to say stub-
born, too, I decided to finish it alone.

More than once during that perilous
descent into the gorge did I wish I had
abandoned my purpose on the narrow
trail below the High Place.

At length, a bit bruised and smarting
from contact with the rocks, I found
myself before the cave. Its mouth
breathed damp, foul odors — the smell
of fish and stale salt. A gradual incline
went down into its throat, vanishing in
somber darkness.

I felt a queer dread of the place as I
entered and before I had advanced many
yards this aversion increased to terror.
In the dank, foul air was an element
that inspired in me a sensation similar
to the one I had experienced as I
crossed the Vale Where Dead Men Walk
— the ponderous weight upon the chest.

I wondered if by chance I was ex-
ploring a hiding place of the old Taha-
tian pirates, and if, in this gullet of
darkness, I would stumble upon chests
of loot — green with the rust and mould
of ages. These thoughts, fanciful
though they were, lured me on, drew me
as in response to a magnet, deeper into
the bowels of the earth.

I could hear a distant booming — like
the surf upon the rocks. Other than
that, and a drip-drip-drip of water
somewhere in the unseen cavity, it

Daughter of the Pigeon

ached with the stillness of a sepulchre.

After fully three minutes of groping
forward my outstretched hands came in-
to contact with a fungi-grown wall and
as I turned to the left, my fingers slip-
ping over the damp surface, I saw a
broad strip of anaemic light streaking the
darkness. It was very singular, such an
illumination, apparently born of itself
in the cavern, and I stood motionless,
trying to discover its source.

It was a noise that moved me — a
groan — such as I once heard from the
throat of a wounded devil-fish — a sound
thrice hideous in the darksome cave.
Had I coughed the following moment
my heart would have Iain upon the floor.

From the vague light the groan had
come, causing me to take an involuntary
step — and not in the direction of the
streak of illumination. I wanted to
bolt it, but instead I forced myself to
wait for a repetition of the noise, and
when a moment had passed in silence,
emboldened by the hush, I moved to-
ward the strange glow.

As I reached it I almost laughed. In
the ceiling of the cave was a gap of
great depth and breadth which admitted
the moonlight, thus creating the singu-
lar and startling pillar of light. Stars
were visible, too — no longer low-hung,
but seeming at distances illimitable.

I had almost forgotten the terrible
groan in my discovery when it was re-
peated, weaker, nevertheless stirring
the hair on my scalp.

My eyes swept the shadows that
hugged the pillar of light, and now,
somewhat accustomed to the gloom, I
could make out many square shapes be-
yond the glow — objects that I perceived
to be nothing less than sea-chests.

The sight of them quickened my pulse.
Iron-bound sea-chests; rusty locks;
doubloons . . .

I could not reach the nearest chest
quick enough and as my fingers found
the lock they trembled violently. To

my surprise the lid yielded — but not
without a shrill of protest from the an-
cient hinges.
Empty.

I moved to the next one. Following
the shriek of the unoiled iron, sheer
horror drove its rapier the length of my
body. I drew back, terrified, yet fasci-
nated.

In the huge sea-chest, face upturned,
was a man.

I cannot adequately define my emo-
tions. I was filled with a craven desire
to run, to shut the lid upon the body, to
do anything to escape the horrid cavern.
How long I stood there, stiff with fright,
I do not know, but it was some time, and
the third groan aroused me from the
fear-stupor.

He was alive, I told myself — prob-
ably injured. . . .

I forced myself to grip die figure and
drag it from the sea-chest into the pallid
moonlight.

It was a slim Marquesan youth, naked
but for a pareu, an ugly blade driven
hard into his stomach. The sight of the
wound sickened me. His eyes were open
and upon me-^arge, pathetic eyes. With
him life was a matter of minutes. A
surge of pity for the young body swept
me. The death of youth is always a
grim affair — a dark portal closing upon
sublime vistas.

To my surprise he smiled — a rather
ghastly expression.

"Mcnike," he whispered, something
dark upon his lips. "You, you help me
. . . I—"

"Go on," I urged as his voice trailed
off, and although I knew he was be-
yond the aid of man I added. "I will
help you."

Again the ghastly smile. "Tahaiupe-
hii — Daughter of the Pigeon — she — "

Well, I finally got the story, a tale of

Daughter of the Pigeon

tears and flowers such as one would
expect to hear on this dying island,
told between gasps for breath:

His name was Red Moon. On Taoha
was a maiden whom he desired for his
wife — Tahaiupehii, Daughter of the
Pigeon, pale of throat and dark of eyes.
She was the child of Mahuma, the chief.
Habuhamo, a chieftain of Fatu-hiva,
also coveted the fair Tahaiupehii — and
Habuhamo was fat and degenerate, and
Daughter of the Pigeon despised him,
for she, in turn, loved Red Moon.

On this evening Red Moon had re-
ceived a message to come to the Cave
of the Laughing Lepers and as he en-
tered he was attacked by Habuhamo and
his men . . . stabbed. Before they put
him in the sea-chest the obese Habu-
hamo told him that it was his intention
to go to the paepae of Mahuma, the
drinker of Kava, and steal the moon-
throated Daughter of the Pigeon — after
he had killed her father. . . .

In the end he asked if I, the Menike,
would follow Habuhamo and his men
to the paepae of Mahuma and save Ta-
haiupehii. He was dying, he whispered,
and if I did not go . . .

As he finished his story he did a
plucky thing — he withdrew the knife
with a feeble wrench from his stomach,
his tawny face convulsed with agony.

"You take knife," he muttered, hand-
ing the bloody weapon to me, "You
carry Red Moon on . . . back — and Red
Moon show you paepae of Mahuma. . ."

I did not believe the boy would last
three minutes, but I lifted him as gently
as I could and slung him on my back.

When I reached the High Place, af-
ter a tortuous ascent from the gorge
with Red Moon clinging to my neck, I
was disappointed. I had hoped that by
good fortune I would meet my friend
here, but instead of Cleaves I found a
pile of stones upon the Altar of Po.

That journey from the Cave of the
Laughing Lepers to the house of Ma-
B. M. — Sept. — s

huma is burned into my memory. After
what seemed deathless sons of plung-
ing through jungles, a light glimmered
among the trees. When Red Moon saw
it he begged to be left here, saying he
was an encumbrance now.

"Save her, Mcnikc," he pleaded pite-
ously as I placed him on the round, death
seeping into the liquid black eyes. "Tell
her that ..."

But I never knew what to tell her.
From his lips came a sound like the flut-
ter of beating wings. . . .

I left him there, resolved to return
later and bury him, and with the bloody
knife that he had given me, I crept into
the clearing around the thatched bam-
boo house. Lights shone from the door
and one window.

Climbing upon the paepae, I crawled
to the lighted window. It opened out
from a small cool room with green
mats and bamboo walls. The five Mar-
quesans were there, wearing crimson
parens and necklaces of shark 's-teeth,
all slim but one whom I knew to be
Habuhamo. He was clad in a scarlet
and yellow kaJiu-ropa, his big nose
ringed with an ornament ; fat and greasy
in the light of the whale-oil lamp, with
red, piglike eyes — a thing to loathe in-
stantly.

The chief was speaking so swiftly in
Marquesan that I, with only my smat-
tering of the tongue, could not thor-
oughly understand him, and before I
comprehended the full import of his
words the four warriors filed out of the
bamboo dwelling. I hardly had the
opportunity to drop in the shadows be-
fore they emerged.

I lay still, not daring to move or hard-
-ly breathe, until I heard their padded
footsteps growing fainter, then I became
bold enough to raise my eyes — just in
time to see the last of the four vanish
in the gloom of a path that deserted the
clearing for the jungle.

Once more I peered within the house.

Daughter of the Pigeon

Habuhamo was seated Turk-fashion
on the green mats, his back to the door-
way. I smiled with anticipation, for I
hated him, not with the antagonism that
is often the result of clashing personal-
ities, but with a deep loathing as for
some crawling thing of the earth.

Gripping the blood-soiled knife I
moved to the door and crept stealthily
inside, halting a few feet behind Habu-
hamo. At that instant some psychic
current conveyed to him the fact that he
was not alone. He glanced over his
shoulder and I looked straight into the
narrow, piglike eyes.

The sound that issued from between
his moist lips was like nothing human.
He tried to make his feet, but I was
upon him, one arm 'encircling his thick
neck, the blade poised above his heart.

"I ought to kill you instantly, Habu-
hamo," I said in my bastard Marquesan,
"but there is something I want to know
before—"

"No, no, don't kill !" he whimpered in
poor English, "I spik English — "

"Where is Mahuma — and Tahaiupe-
hii?" I demanded.

Habuhamo's red-shot eyes moved to
a dark doorway on the left and I invol-
untarily loosened the grasp about his
throat — and as I did he wrenched free,
staggering to his feet with the scream of
an angry boar. I scarcely had time to
balance myself for the onslaught before
the soft body was hurled upon me and
his arms pressed me to his breast. I
caught the reek of rum — and Habu-
hamo. . . .

I struck with doubled fist instead of
ihc knife — the left fist. It went home
in the solar plexus, carrying my whole
weight behind it, a foul blow I admit,
and with that inhuman cry the island
chief pitched forward like a sodden piece
of driftwood upon the green mats.

T stood above him. breathing hard and
trying to clear my nostrils of the odor of
him. He did not move. I turned his

bulk over with my bare foot and the
feel of it sickened me.

That solar plexus blow liad done him
to unconsciousness. Habuhamo was out
of it for at least fifteen minutes. . . .
t I moved into the adjoining room.
Dark — but not so dark that I could not
see the body on the floor. Instinct told
me it was Mahuma. The wound was a
nasty one — such as had been dealt Red
Moon. Mahuma seemed so old, so help-
less as he lay there in his own blood.

And Daughter of the Pigeon — what
of her?

The dwelling boasted of three rooms
and Tahaiupehii was in none.

As I quitted the room where Habu-
hamo lay upon the green mats, emerg-
ing upon the paepae, my eyes alighted
upon the jungle trail which the islan-
ders had taken. It was the only course
left to pursue and I plunged between the
whispering foliage.

I knew the path led seaward, for I
could hear the breakers and the pound-
ing of the surf in the blow-holes, but I
was not prepared for what I saw. The
jungle dropped away before a ledge
whose quartz-like surface scintillated in
the moonlight. Several yards beyond the
brush a narrow stream flung its torrents
over spray-dashed rocks, tumbling
headlong into a huge bowl of solid
granite fully nineteen feet below, and
here, still foaming furiously from the
fall, it swirled between stone banks to-
ward the sea. At the juncture where
the river met rough water lofty cliffs
overhung the beach, pierced with innu-
merable caves.

I found myself on the very verge of
the cataract before I knew it. Below,
on a flat rock at one side of the pool,
was a form, slim and pale as a flame, the
slender shoulders lost in masses of dark
hair. Daughter of the Pigeon. I knew —
for as she stood poised on the brink of
the huge granite bowl she was as fair
as that winged creature after which she

Daughter of the Pigeon

was named. I could see that she wore a
pareu twisted about her.

Not two yards behind her an islander
was squirming over the spray- wet stone.
Following him was another. On the
opposite side of the pool the other Mar-
quesans were crouched behind boulders.

Unaware of her danger, Tahaiupehii
stood on the edge of the rock, but even
as I looked, her straight body flashed
through the air, plunging into the
foam.

As she vanished beneath the water one
of the islanders crawled to the rim of
the pool. An instant later her head
appeared and she must have seen him,
for a cry rang above the dull boom of
the waterfall.

The Marquesan slipped into the pool.

I experienced a moment of indecision ;
my brain strove to function quickly.
The two figures were almost side by side
in the current. Nineteen feet — a
straight drop, and I did not know the
depth. Yet . . .

I gripped the blade between my teeth ;
took a deep breath. After that I was
conscious of shooting through space . . .
down . . . into what seemed a depthless
pit. I struck the pool — went under with
a force that lashed my flesh and expelled
the air from my lungs.

In the battle against the torrent I al-
most lost the knife, but in some manner
I managed to retain it. Through a
whirling, opaque mass I came up, every
inch of my body stinging.

Not more than a rod away I saw the
two figures. I caught the gleam of
grappling arms — saw a face that in the
night was pale like blue moonlight, as
exquisitely beautiful as any I have ever
seen. . . .

In a moment I reached them, closing
about the shining dark neck. With the
other hand I swung the knife. Together
we sank. In that gray chaos we strug-
gled, I slashing with the deadly blade.

Of a sudden it was conveyed to my
brain, along with a strangling sensation,
that my hand was holding nothing —
that the knife-thrusts had told. I
buoyed myself upward and attained the
surface — alone. I doubt if the native
ever came up.

It must have been a rock that sent me
out. At any rate the pain was sharp —
in the back of the skull. Things went
dim. I realized that a hand gripped my
hair — then I knew . . . nothing.

Ill

Tue sleep that followed was not calm
— nor can I hardly call it sleep, for dur-
ing the whole period I had a peculiar
awareness of things, of movement and a
sound like unleashed thunder.. And
with the advent of full consciousness I
was not, as I expected, in the water, al-
though it was damp and I could feel a
cool spray upon my body.

I sat upright on cold stone, my head
aching dreadfully. Something close at
hand was roaring and in a hazy way I
realized that the noise was responsible
for the spray; but as my vision cleared
I saw only dimness broken on one side
by a glimmering sheet that was a shade
lighter than the surrounding gloom.

Gradually I comprehended. I was
under the waterfall, in a dark recess in
the rocks; the shifting curtain was noth-
ing less than the cascading water.

Then I was startled by a voice almost
at my elbow, speaking in Marquesan —
"Menike, you are awake — at last?"

I knew her instantly, though she was
little more than a blot in the dimness.
Tahaiupehii — that exquisite young crea-
ture whose face I had seen momentarily
as I fought the islander.

"I am glad you have come back,
Menike," she said, creeping closer to me
and slipping her small spray-wet hand
in mine. Her nearness made me con-
scious of a pleasant odor — that of red

Daughter of the Pigeon

jasmine. "Your head hit a rock — and
I was afraid ..."

"You saved me, Tahaiupehii ?" I
asked.

"I saw you as you dived from above
— knew that you had done it to save
me from Habuhamo's men. After you
were hurt I swam with you to this cave
under the waterfall."

I looked about me. A grim, loath-
some place. I imagined there were
creeping things upon the rock floor. But
it was sanctuary.

"You were very brave," I commend-
ed, wondering how I was going to ac-
quaint her with the truth.

My vision was becoming better regu-
lated now, and with the aid of the pale
light diat filtered through the liquid
curtain I could see her tawny face.
Daughter of the Pigeon — less than
seventeen, I knew, a symphony of the
world's sorrow, a living symbol of that
tragic isle to which she belonged.

"How did you happen here, Men-
ike?" she questioned. "White men
rarely come to Taoha any more. . . ."

So I told her then — told her of my
swim to the island and the discovery of
Red Moon in the sea-chest in the Cave
of the Laughing Lepers; told her of
the death of her boy-lover near the
patpae of Mahuma, and the finding of
her father's body in the bamboo
room.

Man is ever crude in the presence
of bereavement, and my words must
have been dagger-thrusts. She wept
... of course. Father and lover in a
night. And as she sat there, drenched
with spray, clad only in the dripping
fareu, a tragically lovely figure, she re-
called to me a field of lilies that I had
once seen .... just before the dawn,
when the dew was upon* their chaste
petals.

"Be calm, O Tahaiupehii." I en-
joined gently, endeavoring to invest my
sympathy in the words. "You are still

in danger. Tell me, is anyone else
aware of this cave?"

"I do not know, Menike."

"If it is unknown to Habuhamo's
men they will think us drowned — but
if it is known — they will come after us
— or wait. . . ."

Her small hand was still in mine and
I felt her shudder.

"Ah, I cannot stay here — in this
darkness — thinking of Red Moon and
my father! We must dive under the
waterfall and swim for the sea!"

I doubted the wisdom of such action
and expressed my opinion, to which
she replied: "We cannot discover if
Habuhamo's men are waiting by re-
maining here — and if they know of the
cave and come after us — then the
chances for escape will be less."

I thought of Cleaves and the men —
probably searching the island for me.
and said, "My friends are somewhere
on Taoha— and if we can make the sea
— in the event Habuhamo's men are
waiting — "

"Only for your safety do I care,"
she broke in. "You exposed yourself
to danger for me, but I — All that I ever
cared for is gone. Let another page
of the history of this doomed island be
written — in my blood — for rather than
submit to Habuhamo I would kill ray-
self."

I felt a bit hysterical; I wanted to
laugh. Such odds. Three islanders,
probably searching the island for me,
girl and me. It might have been rare
sport had she not been there, but her
presence gave the situation a horrid
twist.

"Come, Menike," I heard her say.
"Let us go. This place stifles me — "

It burned me to think of Habuhamo
alive. I wished that I had used the
knife upon his corrupt body. . . .

"Very well, Tahaiupehii," I agreed
after a moment; "swim under water
as far as you can — and stay ahead of

Daughter of the Pigeon

me. I'll attend to Habuliamo's men."

I saw her smile — a fixed, lifeless ex-
pression. . . .

My heart went cold within me as we
swung down from the dripping rocks
of the cavern. As the deluge showered
her slim body I caught a glimpse of her
face, paler than the whitest moons.

That plunge was a horror to me.
Bruised and breathless, my vision
flecked with fire, I sank . . . down . . .
into a reeling, watery world. My feet
touched bottom before I was able to
begin the fight upward, and when at
last I gained the surface I dashed the
spray from my eyes.

Tahaiupehii was a yard or more
ahead of me, arms agleam in the moon-
light. They were there, the three islan-
ders, sleek and sinister, slipping down
from the bank of granite basin. There
was a fourth, too, a fat, sprawling
form high on the rocks.

Habuhamo." . . .

Again I wished I had killed him in
the bamboo hut.

The islanders were between Tahai-
upehii and me, and Habuhamo was
running along the shore parallel to the
girl.

Straight after the Marquesans I
swam until I was abreast of the rear
one. He was a wiry fellow, smaller
than I, with an ugly blade gripped in
his teeth. I struck him between the
eyes and literally tore the knife from
his mouth. As he sank I saw some-
thing black upon his lips.

After that objects swam in a blurr —
blended water and rocks and over all
the tranquil moon. Instead of launch-
ing an offensive against the other two
natives, I succeeded in gaining a lead
on them, and side by side Tahaiupehii
and I were borne with the churning riv-
er. Occasionally I glanced behind at
the pursuing islanders and that obese
effigy on the bank.

With the deadliness of sharks the

Marquesans followed — down with the
boom and thunder of the stream into
the mouth of the sea. Here the con-
flicting currents caught us in their tur-
bulence and lashed us toward the giant
rocks that fringed the shore.

A new peril loomed in the shape of
the crags where the surf gave vent to
its wrath, and we swam with all the
strength we could assemble against the
menace. Tahaiupehii was the first to
reach the shore. I saw blood on her
shoulder where the sea had flung her
cruelly upon a jutting stone in her at-
tempt to crawl from the surf.

I was not far behind her, and as I
staggered out of the thrashing water
the bulky figure of Habuhamo ap-
peared from behind the rocks of the
river bank. Trapped. I threw the girl
a look of futility. It was the finish,
unless . . .

"The cave!" I shouted, pressing the
knife into her hand and pointing to a
nearby cavity in the rugged cliffs. "De-
fend yourself until I come — "

I caught the gleam of her pallid face
as she obeyed.

Habuhamo must come first, I told
myself — but Fate decided otherwise.
Upon glancing back I perceived that
one of the Marquesans had reached the
shore and was clambering upon" the
rocks with a slim blade in his hand.

I looked about for some means of
defense and my eyes dropped to the
broken bits of boulders that lay at my
feet. I bent and gripped one, lifted
it above my head and let it fly. It
struck him on the forehead with an
ugly sound — like a crushed cocoanut
shell. . . .

Throwing a glance toward the cave I
saw Tahaiupehii entering, Habuhamo
at her heels. As I started to follow, a
lean something from behind closed
about my ankle — the hand of the last
Marquesan, a terrible-looking fellow,
naked and tattooed to a king's delight.

Daughter of the Pigeon

With a bound he was upon me, and
I let go my fist, sending him rolling
among the rocks. Regaining my feet,
1 reached his side and bent over him.
How I accomplished the following feat
I do not know — but I grasped him by
the nape of the neck and one limb and
lifted him clawing above me; staggered
to the edge of the surf and hurled him
head-first into the shallow water.

As the weight left my hands I fell
back on the rocks, but was up instantly
— for the picture of Tahaiupehii as she
darted into the cave, followed by that
obese chief, was written in crimson on
my brain.

Shortly I reached the mouth of the
cave, a huge gap in the cliffs, only par-
tially roofed and under almost two feet
of water. From the rear came a muf-
fled roar.

Splashing through water above my
knees, often stumbling in the dimness,
I covered what seemed miles, plunging
with every step further into the cave.
At an abrupt turn I was brought into
an outlet that ran between lofty walls.
The light of the yellow moon intruded
upon the gloom, faintly revealing the
sucking, snarling tide that rolled over
the rocks and eddied between the cliffs.

They were there — Tahaiupehii and
Habuhamo, locked together on the sur-
face of a boulder. As I rounded the
corner I saw her thrust him away and
down upon him, something glistening
held over her heart.

I shrieked — but the gnash i g of the
surf devoured my voice.

Habuhamo sprang — and at his first
movement Tahaiupehii plunged the
shining thing into her breast. . . .

I closed my eyes ; I think I reeled, too,
so sick with horror was I. When I re-
gained the mastery of myself I dashed
through the water, which was now just
below my armpits, and drew myself
upon the boulder where Habuhamo
stood.

I struck him from behind, knocked
him flat upon the stone and threw my-
self upon him, pinning him beneath my
weight and sending my doubled fist
time after time into the bloated, horrid
face.

My reason surrendered wholly to a
frightful lust to murder. Blind to all
except the bloodshot eyes beneath me,
eyes that were glazed with horror, that
beseeched mercy, I thrashed him, tore
at his skin with my finger-nails ; choked
him, beat his face until its grotesque
mutilation forced a hysterical laugh
from my throat. My own madness
nauseated me, yet not once did I falter
or weaken in the ghastly business — not
until the body was lifeless, and with
my bruised, bloody hands I pushed it
to the edge of the boulder and kicked
it into the delirious water. The last
glimpse I had of that sodden, rum-
soaked flesh called Habuhamo was as
the surf flung its foaming arms about
it and dragged it out to sea.

Tahaiupehii was conscious when I
knelt beside her on the edge — slim and
white as fire, her wet dark hair spread
in a tangle about her lovely face. More
than ever her features seemed fash-
ioned from blue moonlight.

"Tahaiupehii, Tahaiupehii!" I cried,
trying to make myself heard above the
surf. "I will take you out to my yacht
— and you will get well — "

Daughter of the Pigeon smiled, not
at me or what I said, but because, I
believe, she heard another voice ringing
clear above the tumult of the sea — the
voice of her boy-lover in the darkness
of Po.

She did not stir again, only lay there,
lips locked, the childish smile frozen on
her face. . . .

I carried her down to the beach and
placed her gently on the white sands.

Daughter of the Pigeon

I shall never forget her as she lay there,
her exquisite body dashed with the salt
spray of the sea, the wound between
her breasts as dark as a tropical gar-
denia.

A half hour later Cleaves and Leap-
ing Fire came upon us on the beach.
They were about to abandon the search
for me, believing me gone to the
sharks. After I told them the story we
carried Tahaiupehii to the paepae of
her father, and here, not far from the
bamboo house that had known her
love and sorrow, we buried her. . . .

between Mahuma and Red Moon.

Several hours afterward I was on
the deck of the Jesbcl, and while a sul-
len, red-shot dawn flared above the
thunders of Temetiu, the yacht
throbbed out of the Bay of Traitors.

The last sight that I had of Taoha, the
dying isle, was through the morning
fog, a haze that lay upon it like a spirit
hand . . . as if the volcano that in
ages past had spewn it above the green
Pacific was reaching up from fathom-
less depths to reclaim it.
" O Tahaiupehii — paepae kaoha!

The Heart on the Mantel

By Paul Everman

WHEN I first saw it move I
became sceptical as to the
worth of my vision. A dead
man's heart, cut from his
body, sealed in a glass jar of alcohol —
why should it move, how could it move ?

This heart was by far the most hor-
rible thing in Leon Campeau's collec-
tion of human debris. As his room-
mate and fellow student in medicine I
had tolerated' the clutter of bones and
skulls he had picked up, also the im-
maculate skeleton which leered gro-
tesquely at me from its tall, glass-doored
case. But to me this heart, this lump of
muscle and tissue, seemed hardly ap-
propriate as a companionable ornament.

Leon had brought it in that very
morning, delighted in its acquisition, for
it was on the heart that he was special-
izing. He had secured it, he explained,
with the connivance of a keeper of the
morgue. He had bribed this keeper, he
told me, to allow him to remove the
heart from the body of a derelict who
was to be buried that morning in the
porter's field. A clever fellow, Leon!

The heart was now where he had
placed it — in its jar on the mantel — a
reddish-brown lump that seemed but a
deep shadow against the. vestal white-
ness of wall that rose behind and above.

With one elbow propped on my lit-
tered study table, I watched the thing
nervously. Had it really moved, or was
my imagination flighty?

There ! It moved again — I was sure.
Yes, it moved ; an almost imperceptible
flutter in its liquid preservative. I
stared. It jerked again . . . again
... The jerks" were weak, clumsy,
measured.
72

The thing was coming to life; it was
beating.

I shuddered and glanced quickly be-
hind me, all about the room. But I was
alone — alone except for a dead man's
heart.

Leon was away on one of his nightly
amours, and Francois Bourlin, a fellow
student who was specializing in diseases
of the lungs, my own major, had spent
the earlier part of the night with me.
We had little of the brilliance of Leon,
who at a glance could grasp the mean-
ing of an entire page and retain it, who
could hear more with a stethescope than
we could see with our eyes, whose skill
with the knife had aroused admiration
from the greatest surgeons of the fac-
ulty. No, we were grubs. We worked
for what knowledge we got. But when
we got it we did not boast of it as Leon
boasted of his accomplishments.

Francois had left at nine-thirty, and
it was after ten when I noticed the first
movement from the heart.

Its beats were now growing stronger.
I could see the alcohol ripple in tiny
waves with each rhythmic beat. I
listened — and heard a gentle splash,
splash, splash, as regular yet not so
metallic as the ticking of a watch.

Suddenly the heart flopped convul-
sively and drifted with the gentlest
movement to the top of the jar. It was
beating steadily now. It circled slowly
about the jar, like an exhausted bird not
sure of its direction.

"It's impossible," I muttered to my-
self. "It can't be. It's my nerves, my
mind. I've worked too hard. I must
be careful."

By a supreme effort I forced my eyes

The Heart on the Mantel

from the devilish thing. I rummaged
wildly in my desk till I found my
syringe, my bottle of morphine. I drew
up my sleeve and among the many al-
most indistinguishable pits in my arm I
pricked another.

Calm came instantaneously. I laughed
at my fruitful imagination.

"It was my nerves," I thought. "I
will tell no one."

And, with freshened courage, I
turned and gave a bold stare at the jar
on the mantel. The heart had stopped
beating, was lying silent, inert, in its
diaphanous grave.

When Leon came hurrying in a half-
hour later I was getting ready for bed.
His sallow, carelessly-wrought features
were splashed with the high color that is
raised by much wine and aroused ardor.

"Henri," he cried, throwing aside his
hat and ulster, "it has been a wonderful
night! t You should have had a girl and
been with me, mon ami."

I was surfeited on this kind of talk
every night. But I hid my shrug and
asked:

"And where was it — the wonderful
time?"

"At the Cafe Noir. Sacre, Fanchette
is delightful ! A wonderful companion !
But you know her, mon Henri."

Yes, I knew her — Fanchette — a mis-
chievous imp of femininity. I had been
with Leon to the Cafe Noir, a modest
tavern owned and managed by Fan-
chette's husband. M. Leblanc, a jolly
little fellow s.o amorous-hearted and so
trustful of Fanchette that before his
very eyes she had carried on a flirtation
with Leon. She was infatuated with
him — that I could see ; and here of late
he had become infatuated with her.

"But," I said to Leon, "what of the
little girl back in Bayonne — Nina, the
girl who writes to you each day, the
girl you are to marry? What of her?
Have you written to her this week?"

He eyed me for a moment of hos-

tility. "Certes. I have written to her."

But I knew he lied ; lying was a habit
with him.

"Quel diable!" he burst out angrily,
after a moment. "Why do you ask me
that? How does it concern you? Am
I an old owl like you, to sit around
poring over books hour after hour,
day after day? Non, non! I am no
owl, I have life. I love. I enjoy my-
self. I am happy — till I see your gloomy
face. Tiens, I provide for you, I give
you room, I give you clothes ; yet you
correct me!"

I did not argue with him, for I knew
that he was partly right : he was rich, I
was poor. And, after all, his amours
were none of my business.

Francois came to study with me the
next night, for on the day following a
final examination yawned before us.
We worked hard, nervously. And when
Francois finally took his leave, my
head was near bursting with thumpy
aches.

But, obsequious to duty, I bent over
my study table and began to review
some of Rollier's pamphlets — wonder-
ful treatises on heliotherapy and arti-
ficial pneumo-thorax. Outside, rain
splashed down heavily, as if to crush
my night-blackened window panes. The
cry of the storm was the mourning cry
of wretched, lonely beasts. But I read
on and on till the words of Rollier be-
came but dancing specks before my
eyes.

Suddenly, as if drawn by some sub-
conscious power, I raised my head,
turned slowly and stared — at the
mantel.

My eyes found the heart in its tall
glass jar, its reddish-brown shape
sharply defined against the white back-
ground of wall.

It was beating more stanchly than
on the night before, as if it had regained
a lost vitality.

At the top of the jar the alcohol

The Heart on the Mantel

rocked and lowered in gentle wavelets
with each heart-beat.

I listened — intently, fearfully. And
above the dull beating of rain and the
whistle and howl of the wind, I at last
managed to detect a sound of splashing
in the jar. The sound came steadily —
a gentle, purring splash, splash, splash
— with each heart beat, with each
wavelet.

I tried to take my eyes away, but I
could not; I was held by the thing's
devilish charm. As I watched, the beats
became thuds; the heart gave a clumsy
jerk, then floated slowly to the top of
the jar. For a moment it swam about
uncertainly, from top to bottom, from
one side to the other. Then its move-
ments became rapid, agitated, violent.
It dashed about frenziedly, like a fright-
ened bird vainly trying to escape from
its cage. The jar rocked with the vio-
lent motion — I heard it, I saw.

With a jerky hand I wiped the cold
sweat from my forehead.

"My God!" I thought. "Am I going
mad?"

I tried to take my eyes away — and
failed. I must do something I With
all the power of will and muscle I could
summon I sent my right hand groping
about the table. At last my fingers
found the syringe — and later the magic
bottle of morphine.

Somehow I managed the injection.
Calm came again. My eyes dropped
from the gruesome thing. . . . And
when, in a spirit of bravado, I raised
them again a few moments later, it had
stopped its beating and lay motionless
at the bottom of the jar.

I looked at my watch ; it was 1 1 :30.
And fully a half-hour passed before
Leon came home.

He came stumbling hilariously into
the study room, plainly drunk.

"Tiens, mon Henri!" he cried, slap-
ping me on the shoulder. "It was a
happy night! There was wine and my
Fanchette and I — ah, what happiness!"

And he babbled on foolishly till he
had led me through the entire course of
his happy night.

While he was talking I was silent, but
as he began clumsily to hang up his
clothes I could no longer restrain a
warning comment.

"One of these nights when you go to
the Cafe Noir, mon Leon, M. Leblanc
will tire of your love-making to his
wife. You had better watch out for
him. He is a man who loves much, and
if he discovers your attentions he will
be dangerous."

"M. Leblanc?" Leon laughed drunk-
enly as he turned to hang up his hat. "I
do not fear Monsieur Leblanc. He is
like you, mon ami; he is an owl ; he sees
nothing. Besides, he is away now- He
has gone to the country for a few days.
He would buy a farm ; he would put my
Fanchette on a farm! Pecaire! But
while he is gone Fanchette and I are
happy. She has hired a waitress to take
her place — a lean waitress with brick-
colored hair. Fanchette acts as man-
ager. I am her assistant. Hah! It is
amusing. But is it not an ideal ar-
rangement ?"

My silence seemed to anger him. As
he watched me his leer changed to a
glare, and finally he burst out:

"But why do you tell me to be care-
ful? You have corrected me again!
How is it your affair? I will mind
my own business and you shall mind
yours. . . . You disgust me! . . .*

But he was in a better humor the
next morning, and when I came into
the study room I found him staring
rapturously into the glass jar on the
mantel.

"Come, mon ami," he exclaimed, "and
admire with me the consummate skill
with which I removed this organ. Ah,

The Heart on the Mantel

was it not an artistic job? A wonder-
ful specimen, man Henri ; just what I
need for study. I will be a great sur-
geon, n'est ce pas? . . . You should
have specialized in the heart, Henri.
The old lungs that you study are of no
use except for breathing, like bellows
such as blacksmiths use. But the heart
— ah, it is the organ magnifique! It is
the heart that sends out blood that is
like the richest of wine. It is the heart
that puts the glow to my Fanchette's
cheeks. It is the heart that gives us
happiness, emotion, love. A wonderful
thing, Henri — wonderful! . . ."

I failed miserably in my examinations
that day, but from the triumphant ex-
pression on Leon's face when I met
him early in the evening I knew that he
had succeeded as completely as I had
failed. The situation was galling to me :
I had worked slavishly, he had trifled
and loafed ; yet I had lost and he had
won.

After a hasty dinner at my pension
I hurried to my room. As usual, Leon
was gone. Partly because of a crush-
ing headache and wracked nerves and
partly because of a desire to be entirely
alone in enduring the day's disap-
pointments, I went to bed. But I did
not sleep — I tossed and rolled ; I
thought, suffered, despaired.

Finally I got up, jerked one of Leon's
richly-hued robes about me and went
into the study room. It was eleven
o'clock.

The night was black — a desolation of
disturbing quietude. The wind and rain
of the night before had gone. Not a
whisper, not a sound of any kind came
to break the silence of the room — it was
like a void, a vacuity, of the portentous
stillness.

Suddenly, yet inexorably, I was
gripped by that same subconscious force
that had come to me the night before. It
raised my head from my propping
hands. It turned me in my chair. It

focused my eyes on the tall glass jar
that sat on the mantel.

Surely, regularly, its every motion ac-
centuated against the pure white back-
ground of wall, the heart was beating,
beating.

A sudden anger rose within me.

"I am going mad !" I thought desper-
ately. I would seize the jar and its dev-
ilish contents ; I would smash it, hurl
it from the window. But to carry out
my resolution I could not summon the
strength of a single muscle. I was help-
less.

As I watched, the reddish-brown
lump began to swim about the jar. Its
beating was measured, like a funeral
tramp. I could hear it, its splashing
sound thudding mightily in the deep
stillness.

Suddenly there came a tremendous
splash. The heart dived to the bottom,
floundered for a moment, then again
shot to the top. Its motion was so
rapid that my eyes could scarcely fol-
low it. It churned the liquid. It dashed
and darted about, mad~ly, frantically.
It thrashed about in the alcohol like a
wounded shark in the ago"ny of death.

"The thing has a soul," I thought;
"and it is troubled, disturbed."

The jar rocked, almost overturned,
from the violent movement within. The
heart veered, dodged, banged upward,
then shot down. Yes, the thing must
have a soul.

I tried to take my eyes away — fruit-
less effort! The thing was possessing
me, was my master. It bade me watch,
and I did. But as I watched I think I
must have prayed.

I tried to reach for my syringe ; but
my hand hung motionless at my side.
I was powerless.

A quick thought almost calmed me.

"I will see now—" I told myself— "I
will see whether it is my nerves,
whether I am going mad. I will fight it
without the morphine. I will fight it,

The Heart on the Mantel

and if it ceases moving, I will have
won."

My situation was no longer terrify-
ing; it became a game, a battle. I was
fighting, playing against the reddish-
brown streak that thrashed continuously
against its background of white; I was
fighting its monotonous beats, its zig-
zagging progress, its splashing sounds,
the agitated wavelets it made..

A mellow-toned clock boomed faintly
in the distance. I counted its strokes
— one — two — three —

The heart shot to the middle of the
jar — for a moment became wholly rigid.
Then its beating slowed. I stared,
listened. Yes, its beats were timed ex-
actly with each stroke of the clock.
They came slowly, relentlessly, like a
knell. I kept on counting.

— Eight — ni tie — ten — ele ven — t wel ve.
At the last stroke the heart again be-
came rigid. Then it sank slowly to the
bottom of the jar and lay there mo-
tionless.

"I have won I" I told myself fiercely,
exultingly. "I have beaten it! It was
my nerves, but I have conquered them."

Surely a sedative could do no harm
now, I thought. The crisis had passed ;
I had shown my strength. So I hastily
bared my arm and pricked into it a
double dosage of morphine.

Languor came speedily. I decided to
not wait for Leon. So I went to bed,
fell into a heavy sleep — and dreamed.

I dreamed about the heart — this red-
dish-brown lump on the mantel. I
dreamed that it had eyes, that it watched

me. I dreamed that it had a soul, a soul
that was troubled and that troubled me.
I dreamed that it had power, invisible
and terrible; power that charmed me,
cowed me, molded me, tortured me.

I must have slept solidly throughout
the night. I do not remember of awak-
ing a single time. All I remember is
that it was a night of hideous dreams
against which I was powerless.

I was awakened by a clatter at the
stairs, by a pounding on the door, by a
voice crying shrilly, queerly:

"Henri ! Let me in, Henri I Let me
in I"

I sprang up, into the study room, and
opened the door.

Francois Bourlin stumbled in, his
face as chalklike as the white of his
eyes.

"Henri — haven't you heard — " he be-
gan in a panicky tremolo.

"Heard?" I stammered. "What?"

"About Leon. Ah, it is terrible 1 All
on account of that woman — Fanchettel
. . . Leon has been arrested — has
confessed! Last night at twelve o'clock
the police found Leblanc's mutilated
body in a sewer in the Rue de Loix.
He had been dead for at least two days."

Francois clutched my arm fearfully,
and his voice fell to a husky whisper :

"Leon — Leon had cut his heart out I"

I recoiled. Then my eyes flashed to
the jar on the mantel. Glistening in the
fresh morning light, against the white
background of wall was a shriveled
lump, inert, silent, dead. And I knew
that it would never beat again.

The Devil Takes a Hand

By Ward Sterling

TEN N ANT stopped outside the
door of his wife's room and went
over the details of his plan for
the last time. The thing was so
absurdly simple that he wondered why
he had not thought of it months before.
There was not the least chance of a fail-
ure. He had only to plant the idea in
her diseased brain and she, with the cun-
ning that all maniacs possess, would do
the rest.

Everyone knew her suicidal mania.
It had been brought out at the time of
the hearing. No blame could possibly
be attached to him for her death. Had
not the nurse frustrated her in half a
dozen different attempts? Damn that
fool nurse anyway! She had too ex-
alted an idea of the importance of her
position.

But, after all, it was, possibly, a good
thing that she had been so vigilant.
People couldn't say that it was careless-
ness, then. He smiled to himself as he
recalled the kind things their friends
had said when he refused to send his
wife to an asylum after the court had
pronounced her insane. They imagined
that it was his great love that made him
keep her with him. It was laughable
how easily people could be fooled. How
were they to know that he had made a
careful investigation and found that too
close a watch was kept on the inmates
of such institutions? There was a bet-
ter chance of her making a successful
attempt right here at home. Accidents
are always liable to happen in private
houses ; in public institutions people are
paid to guard against such things.

Curse the fool law that prohibited a
man getting a divorce from an insane

wife. Such laws made a criminal of a
person. Otherwise, he could have mar-
ried Helen a year ago. He must guard
against his love for her being found out.
It might cause someone to cast sus-
picion his way.

Of course, they would never be able
to confirm their conjectures. But his
position in the community was too high
to have even the finger of scorn pointed
in his direction. It would never do for
a deacon in the church and a prominent
professional man to let people know that
he was guilty of evil, even in thought.

No, he must keep away from Helen
until he had shown the proper amount
of respect for his deceased wife — for he
had begun to think of her as already
dead! After a period of hypocritical
mourning, they could be quietly mar-
ried — and he would still retain the love
and respect of his fellow townsmen.
Of course it meant several months'
waiting. It would be hard — but they
would have the rest of their lives to-
gether — and both of them were young.

And there was the matter of Grace's
inheritance to be considered, too. Good
thing they had never had a child. -It
would be all his now — that is, after the
proper formalities had been gone
through. Naturally, he would erect an
expensive headstone to her memory and
give her an elaborate funeral. Some
people measured a man's love for his
wife by the amount of money he spent
on her funeral.

Yes, the scheme was simply Machia-
vellian in its magnitude, and, with the
requisite amount of attention paid to
the details, there was not the least bit
of danger.

The Devil Takes a Hand

He turned the knob and entered tbe
room. With a tender kiss for the wo-
man with lusterless eyes, who sat mum-
bling to herself in the low wicker chair,
nervously picking at the folds of her
dress, he turned to the middle-aged
woman in nurse's garb who sat in the
window near by.

"Better take an hour's walk. Miss
Gorman," he said kindly. "You look
fagged out. I'll look after Mrs. Ten-
nant until you return."

The nurse arose wearily.

"It's awfully kind of you, Mr. Ten-
nant. I am tired. She's been bad
again today," she ended, significantly.

Tennant's face took on a worried
look.

"She'll probably settle down again in
an hour or so," he responded. "I've a
little work to do — I can do it just as
well in the other room and still keep an
eye on my poor little girl. There's noth-
ing around that she can get hold of, is
there?"

He settled himself in a chair beside
his wife and patted her white hand af-
fectionately. With a tear in her kindly
Irish eyes for the little, unostentatious
display of love. Miss Gorman left the
room and, a minute later, Tennant, from
his place in the window, saw her swing-
ing down the street.

The time was at hand.

Pressing his wife's hand tightly be-
tween his own, Tennant addressed her
in the tone one uses in talking to a little
child.

"I've often wondered," he said quiet-
ly, "why you didn't commit suicide,
Grace? Of course, I know that you've
tried it, but your methods have been all
wrong. Do you understand what I am
getting at ? I want to help you."

He looked at the woman keenly. He
imagined that her dull eyes took on an

added brightness — that she was not
plucking at the hem of her dress so
nervously. He hurried on :

"Now, I'm going to show you how
to do it, sweetheart. Then, when the
nurse is out of the room, some day, for
a few minutes, you can put one over on
her. It'll be a good joke on her, won't
it? Come on, and I'll show you how
to do it."

Apathetically she arose and followed
him across the floor to where the big,
old-fashioned bed stood in the distant
corner.

"Now, watch me, dearie, and see
how I do it," he continued. "The
nurse thinks that she's got you
cheated by removing everything that
you might use — but we'll show her,
won't we?"

He removed the light counterpane
from the bed and twisted it into a rope.
"See, girlie, how it's done? Just the
right size to hang one's self with, isn't
it? Now, then, we carry this chair
across the room and put it under this
chandelier. Get the idea?"

The demented woman made no an-
swer. But Tennant knew that her sui-
cidal mind was attracted by the scheme
— that the seed planted in her brain was
already sprouting. She followed close
behind him, her dull, impassive eyes
watching his every move.

He stepped upon the chair and at-
tached the improvised rope to the chan-
delier.

"See how easy it is, dear?" he went
on. "Now, next, we make a noose in
the rope, like this — see? It's just as
easy as rolling off a log. Then we put
the noose over our head and pull it up
tightly about our neck. Understand,
now ? All that's left is to kick the chair
out from underneath — and the devil and
all couldn't keep a person from choking
to death, could her"

From his height atop the chair, he
looked down upon the woman.

The Devil Takes a Hand

She was gazing up at him, fascinated,
her eyes burning brighter now.

"The idea pleases you, doesn't it,
* sweetheart ?" he smiled.

She nodded understandingly.

Then, suddenly, she made a leap for
the chair and tore it from beneath his
feet ! With a frightened yell, the man
dropped to the end of the rope, his toes
almost — but not quite — touching the
floor.

The maniac stepped back with a
shrill littie cry of delight and watched
him gyrate and'whirl as the improvised
rope twisted and untwisted itself. His
mouth was open ( His eyes bulged

from their sockets! His tongue stuck
out oddly. His breath came gurglingly,
sobbingly, gaspingly. His face grew
black and mottled. His legs and arms
danced about curiously, twitchingly. , . .

His peculiar antics filled her with de-
light. She forgot her depression in her
new-found happiness. He was teaching
her some new game. She clapped her
hands together and shouted for more.
And when he hung quiet, she seized him
by the legs and swung him to and fro,
yelling joyously.
• And thus the nurse found them — the
living and the dead — an hour later when
she returned from her walk.

Behind me Mrs. Muzzard cowered, a heap of jabbering fear upon the floor. —

Page 85

The Strange Case of Nathaniel

Broome

By Charles McDonell

FOR the last twenty-five years I
have lived in New York, the drab,
unadventurous life of a city book-
keeper. I have been left pretty
much out of the running, but, with
money sufficient to pay my unassuming
bachelor expenses, I have long ago set-
tled down in my shabbily comfortable
lodgings on Fourteenth Street.

Nothing ever happening to relieve its
monotony, I grew to think that life was
to hold little else save humdrum con-
tentment for me during the quiet re-
mainder of my days.

Now all this is changed, and changed
forever. I shall never be the same man
again.

A few months ago there came to take
lodgings in one of the two rooms on my
floor a very strange man.

The evening upon which he moved
into his room my landlady knocked at
my door the way she does occasionally
for a little chat.

"Evenin", Mr. Scrimgeour," she said.
"I suppose you heard him movin' in his
things?"

"Oh, your new lodger," I replied.
"Well, Mrs. Muzzard, you've had the
room a long while idle on your
hands."

"Yes, Mr. Scrimgeour, but I can't
ezac'ly say as I'm overjoyed that it's
rented."

"Why not?"

"Mr. Scrimgeour, I don't like him!"
"What's the matter with. him?"
"Why, there ain't nothin' the matter
with him as far as that goes. It's on'y

B. M. — Sept. — 6

that I have a kind of presentiment,
that's all. He's so — so queer."

"That needn't worry you, Mrs. Muz-
zard, if he pays his rent. That is, as
long as he doesn't look like a Bolshevik
or any other kind of dangerous lunatic."

"He ain't no Bolshy and T guess he
ain't no loonier than most of the artists
and writers around Greenwich Village
here. And as I've been living down
among them for twenty-odd years I
guess I can stand it. No, it ain't that,
Mr. Scrimgeour; I can't say ezac'ly
what it is. I think he's one of them
Spiritualists we hear so much about
these days in the papers. Now he asks
me for an oil lamp with a heavy shade.
Why ain't the gas light good enough for
the likes of him? I'd like to know. I
never heard of such a queer thing. What
can he be wantin' a 'soft light,' as he
calls it, for, if it ain't so as he can see
the spirits? They say them mediums
works in the dark; Ugh ! It fair makes
me creep !"

"Well, if he raises any objectionable
spirits around here, you just let me
know," I laughed. "I'll see what can be
done toward exorcising them."

As my interest was aroused in my
fellow lodger by this conversation with
my landlady I lingered about in the hall-
way the following morning in the hope
of catching a glimpse of the stranger.
But my curiosity was unrewarded.

Every evening during a whole week I
heard him climb the uncarpeted stairs
and enter his room. Often, during the
course of the evening, I could hear his

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

heavy, measured tread as he paced the
floor sometimes late into the night.

One evening as I arrived home slight-
ly later than usual, having been detained
at the office upon some special work, I
passed him in the dark stairway.

He was coming downstairs, and as the
light from the upper hall shone upon
his back and full into my face, I was
unable to see what he looked like. I
got the impression only of the hugeness
of the man.

Tall, heavily built, his body enveloped
in a large black cloak, he appeared, in
the exaggerated half-light of the stair-
way, to be some great giant hovering
threateningly over me.

He stood courteously aside, however,
pressing himself against the wall to al-
low me to pass. As I did so I glanced
into his face. But he wore a very wide-
brimmed Quaker-like hat and, in the
shadow which it cast, I could note lit-
tle save that he wore large, black-
rimmed spectacles.

"Good evening," I murmured.

His reply came to me in a deep, res-
onant voice, soft and almost tender.
There was the rich quality in it of the
deep notes of an organ.

A most unaccountable feeling came
over me as I brushed past him; some-
thing from the inscrutable alchemy of
an unusual personality. I felt like a lit-
tle child that had got lost in an empty
house.

One evening I discovered, upon try-
ing to light the gas in my room, that I
was without matches. Seeing a light
shining under the stranger's door, I ven-
tured to knock and to beg a match of
him.

He answered with a sonorous "Come
hj," which, considering the secrecy of
the man, filled me with surprise.

I found myself in a meagrely fur-

nished room of nondescript threadbare-
ness akin to my own. The apartment
was lighted not with gas, as in my room,
but by the small table oil-lamp which
had so excited the landlady's suspicions.
The soft yellow glow, repressed by a
heavy shade, poured its light over the
table, covered, as I noticed, with a con-
fusion of papers.

"You will pardon my intrusion," I be-
gan, explaining my forgetfulness about
the matches. ,

"Indeed," he replied. "I am glad, if I
may put it that way, that you have for-
gotten them, as it affords me an oppor-
tunity of meeting you other than in the
stairway."

Why was it that, as he spoke, I fan-
cied he must be smiling ? Something in
the genial raillery of his words, I sup-
pose, for when I looked at him no trace
of amusement could be seen. His face
was as calm, as unemotional as the plac-
id features of a Chinese idol. His
cheeks did not crease, nor were there
any wrinkles about his eyes.

The impression which he made upon
me now was only one of great good-
nature. I wondered why, recalling our
first meeting, I had been so eerily
moved.

Then I looked into his eyes and again
that strange, haunted feeling crept over
me, as it had done that evening upon
the stairs.

His eyes were so large that I fancied
their unusualness must be caused by the
lenses of his glasses, or perhaps by a
trick of the shadows. Yet there was
something in their expression which I
was unable to fathom. Could it be
drugs? No, for there was a look of
grandeur about them. They baffled me.
We humans, who trust so innocently to
our sight, we are all so pitifully
blind I . . .

This was only the first of many eve-
nings spent with Nathaniel Broome.
Diffidently, almost timidly at first, our

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

acquaintance then ripened into a quiet
friendship.

What I am most conscious of having
. gathered from him is beauty; beauty in
the commonplace ; beauty in the song of
a sparrow ; beauty in the drowsy hum of
the city's impersonal noises.

Nathaniel Broome changed my out-
look upon life until we together saw
"no longer blinded by our eyes."

The low, quiet tone of his magnetic
voice lent a magic to his strange un-
usualness ; his great, expressive hands
shaping the gestures of his speech.

When I listened to him talking I
seemed to be swept up, enveloped in his
personality. I felt as a child must feel
when a playful senior stoops and smoth-
ers it in the skirts of his overcoat I
felt helpless, yet cared for. I was
strangely happy.

And, more than his voice, his eyes,
always his eyes, sometimes a little ter-
rifying to me even now, held the secret
fascination of his remarkable character.

That immobile face; that calm, in-
scrutable Buddha. Behind his huge,
horn-rimmed spectacles those great,
kindly eyes of his beamed in gentle mer-
riment at some jest or some quaint con-
ceit of his fancy.

He showed me once the portrait of a
young girl — a dark-haired, hauntingly
beautiful child.

"My daughter," he replied to my look
of inquiry, putting the photograph back
into the drawer of his writing-table. I
knew that he was a widower and, for
some reason, by his manner perhaps, I
supposed that his daughter was dead,
too. •

Naturally, I did not press him for
these confidences. The subject seemed
to move him so deeply that, after he
had once spoken, I had never volun-
tarily mentioned it of my own accord.
If he told me about himself it was be-
cause he felt the need of companion-
ship, the want of a sympathetic ear.

Ill

One morning — it was a holiday, one
of those rare occasions when one is per-
mitted to enjoy the meagre privilege of
seeing his home surroundings by the
unfamiliar light of day — Mrs. Muzzard
rapped sharply at my door.

"Mr. Scrimgeour, for heaven's sake
come and see what can have happened
to Mr. Broome. I've knocked and
knocked at his door, but I can't get no
answer."

"He's probably asleep still," I re-
plied. "I wouldn't disturb him yet, Mr?.
Muzzard."

"Oh, Mr. Scrimgeour, I don't think
he's asleep! Please come and try to
get him to talk to you. I'm . . . ter-
ribly frightened of him and those creepy
eyes of his. You mark my words, Mr.
Scrimgeour, there's something uncanny
about that terrible man ! Oh, why did I
ever let him have me room! Why did
I ever let him come into me house ? Him
with his strange ways, talking to de-
parted sperits all night long!"

"Nonsense, Mrs. Muzzard. You
mustn't let all this newspaper talk get
the better of your good, Irish common
sense!"

"I know what I know, Mr. Scrim-
geour, him with his wide-brimmed hats
and his shaded lamps ! Skulking around
like an old mole afraid to show his face
in the light o' day! That man has a
guilty secret!" she whispered melodra-
matically into my ear.

"Oh, I see!" I laughed. "That ex-,
plains it! Nathaniel Broome is a mys-
terious bandit — cut-throat — murderer,
masquerading incognito."

"I don't know what he's in, Mr.
Scrimgeour, and I don't say he's no
murderer nor nothing. All I got to say,
and if it was over me dead body I'd say
it — that man's hiding from the police!"

I laughed aloud as much at the ab-
surd melodramatics as at the idea of my

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

old friend having so lugubrious a his-
tory.

"Well, let's knock at the terrible ban-
dit's portals, Mrs. Muzzard," I said
mockingly, "and see if we can persuade
him to show himself."

I pulled the cord of my dressing-gown
tightly about my waist, and the action
as I did so seemed whimsically like that
of an ancient warrior "girding up his
loins."

"Come," I said, "I shall do the beard-
ing of the Hon. You may shelter your-
self behind me. Surely if there are any
evil spirits to confront they will have
to tackle me first!"

We crossed the dark hallway and
stopped in the shadows at the closed
door of the mysterious room.

I tapped gently upon the panel.

There was no answer.

Again I rapped upon the door.

"He must be out, after all," I mut-
tered, as there came no reply, and, to
my own amazement, I breathed a sigh
of relief!

"I swear to God, Mr. Scrimgeour,"
exclaimed Mrs. Muzzard in a hoarse
whisper, "I swear to God he ain't set
foot outside this door today!"

She crouched close behind me, her
whole body shaking with excitement,
her breath coming in sharp gasps
through her set teeth. Unaccountably I
thought of a terrier bristling with fear
at something it cannot understand.

As we listened, something of her
perturbation cdmmunicated itself to
me. •

"Can it be," I thought, "tliat the wo-
man has some reason for her fantastic
premonitions?" Then, "Preposterous!
Incredible!"

"He may not have come in at all last
night," I ventured, trying now to re-
assure myself as well as my frightened
companion.

"You must have heard him as plain
as I did, Mr. Scrimgeour." she replied

with startling vehemence. "He's so
heavy on the stairs."

I remembered now that I had heard.

"Surely, ^hen, he is asleep. We had
better not wake him."

"Knock again, Mr. Scrimgeour, for
God's sake knock again !"

Seized by a sudden excitement I
rapped heavily, frantically upon the
panel of the door. So hard did I use
my knuckles that a sharp pain shot
through them, and, glancing down at my
fingers, I saw that I had broken the skin.

Tense now with inexplicable excite-
ment we both stood listening, our heads
bent toward the closed door.

"Good God, what was that!" sobbed
Mrs. Muzzard hysterically, as I fancied
that I could hear a low groan.

"Broome! Broome!" I called, all my
eerie apprehension vanished. The man
was sick, perhaps dying —

"Broome!" I called again, jerking at
the handle of the door.

Again we heard the groan, this time
louder than before.

'for God's sake, Broome, open the
door, man!" I called.

"You — must — not — come — in — !".

The words were spoken with very
great difficulty, as if the unfortunate
man were suffering in intense agony.

"Are you ill?" I called. "It is I,
Scrimgeour! Don't be afraid, but tell
me, Broome. If you are ill we must
help you. You have locked the door."

"I am — not — ill." Again the same tor-
tured voice, forcing itself to speak
through an ecstasy of pain. "You — must
— not — come — in !"

"Oh, God!— God!— God!" shrieked
Mrs. Muzzard in terror. "I tell you
that man's a devil. He's at some of his
ghost tricks now. He'll have all the
powers of hell down on us! Jesus.
Mary and Joseph, may me sins be for-

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

given ! Oh, Blessed Mary, stand betune
us and harm!"

"Shut up, you idiot !" I cried. "Can't
you realize that the man's been taken
suddenly ill! He naturally locked the
door last night, when he went to bed,
and he's too sick to get up and open it
for us!"

"Then what are we to do?" she
moaned, making ineffectual gestures in
the air with her hands.

"We'll have to break open the door.
Get me a hammer, or, if you have an
axe or something heavy ..."

"Til run right away and get Mrs.
Seagle's next door."

"You — must not — open — the — door!"
came again slowly, ominously from the
inner room.

During several moments — moments
that were age-long — I stood still, rooted
to the floor, unable to move my limbs ;
utterly powerless to cry out.

At my sharp command Mrs. Muzzard
had disappeared, more than eagerly I
fancied, in search of a battering imple-
ment.

She returned, a few minutes later,
with an axe, which she had succeeded in
borrowing from her neighbor.

There seemed such a feeling of actu-
ality in the stout wooden handle of the
axe that, as I gripped it in my hands, I
felt my courage returning.

"Look out, Broome!" I shouted. "If
you're up keep away from the door!
I'm going to break it in!" And with that
I dealt a heavy blow upon the upper
panel.

The voice inside became a strangled,
inarticulate scream.

Behind me Mrs. Muzzard cowered, a
heap of jabbering fear, upon the floor.

Seized in a sort of panic, I rained
blow after blow with my stout axe upon
the door. I remember, even in my ex-
citement, comparing the scene with a
similar one as it would be staged in
moving pictures. How quickly upon the

screen the door would have been burst
open, and how, in actuality, it was so
difficult to split such resisting wood.

At last I managed to make an opening
through which I might insert my hand
and turn the key in the lock.

Then the door swung open.

The window shades had been drawn
closely, so that the place was in dark-
ness. I groped my way to the bed.

"Broome!" I cried, still breathless
from the unusual exertion, "what's the
matter ?" And I leaned over the blurred
form that lay crouched in an unnatural
attitude upon the bed.

"A little light, Mrs. Muzzard," I
said over my shoulder, as the landlady
xrept shuddering into the room.

She-walked obediently to the window.

The dark form seemed to writhe in
agony. Then the shade was lifted and
the late morning light poured into the
room.

What I saw there will remain a fear-
ful image in my memory until the day
I die.

As I looked at that face upon the pil-
low the cold chill of horror pricked at
the roots of my hair. Clammy drops of
perspiration stood out upon my fore-
head. I could feel the skin drawing into
gooseflesh over my spine.

Nathaniel Broome, fully dressed, his
body twisted unnaturally in the grip of
some strange paralytic seizure, lay hud-
dled upon the bed, his knees drawn up
until they touched his chin.

I called that creature by the name of
my old friend, but the distorted mask
which I saw upon the pillow bore no re-
semblance to that placid face. It was
the face of the fiend which media? val
sculptors have carved with Gothic mon-
strousness in imperishable stone.

There was no nose ; only two terrible
holes where the flesh had been eaten
away.

The Strange Case o£ Nathaniel Broome

The cheeks were hideously twisted
into gnarled, unnatural shapes. The
dreadful mouth, perverted to a Silenic
grin, leered lasciviously up at me
until I shrank back, dizzy, nauseated, at
the repulsive sight of it.

I felt myself shaking with terror.
This — this nightmare ! This phantasma !
I could not take my eyes away. For
above that horrible 'disfigurement of
flesh, the deep, soul-fathoming eyes of
my friend looked up wonderfully into
mine, and held me in spite of all my
horror at the almost obscene ugliness
beneath them.

There was the same old immortal pa-
tience, the world of understanding, the
illimitable depths of pity. Pity for me!
And there, too, at last I divined what I
could never interpret before. There
was the look which I had for so long
been unable to understand. That look
was Pain!

Our gazes met: mine telling all my
horror, my terror, my fear, my abject
cowardice, my disgust; his, immortal,
patient, all-wise, all-knowing, like the
eyes of God.

"My poor friend — " the gargoyle's
mouth twisted and contorted shockingly
in an effort to form the words, "I can-
not speak. This seizure has taken sud-
den hold upon me. This face — this
ghoul's head—"

"Have pity — have pity~ upon my
weakness," I faltered in the tremulous
whisper of a frightened child. I was
too much unnerved even to attempt a
concealment of my horror. "I can't help
myself. I know that this is only physi-
cal with you. I know that we have no
mastery of our flesh. When you are
well again I will show you how really
much I feel for you in your terrible mis-
fortune."

I looked appealingly down into the
all-pitying light of those unfathomable
eyes. I tried to see only his eyes. I
tried with all my soul to forget the

frightful contortion beneath them. And
slowly there stole over me a sense of il-
limitable calm.

"My very good friend," the low voice,
articulating slowly and painfully, came
to me as through a mist of dreams, "I
am dying, I have been waiting, trying
to prepare for this during several
months. Now it has come. After I have
been laid away you may care to know
. . . some day you may wish to un-
derstand. . . .

"I have made provision for that, both
for you and for one other whom you
will meet after I have gone."

His face working in frightful con-
tortion, my friend lifted a hand, point-
ing tremulously to the paper-littered
table.

I had forgotten Mrs. Muzzard, who
had apparently been standing by the
window. As I moved from the bedside,
where my body had been screening the
dying man, she caught sight of his face
upon the pillow. 4

With a shrill scream, lifting her hands
to cover her eyes, she fell a crumpled
heap upon the floor.

Managing to control myself until a
doctor was summoned, I had my tragi-
cally unfortunate friend removed to a
hospital.

Poor Mrs. Muzzard went out of one
fit of hysterics into another, so that I
was obliged to lay sufficient hold upon
myself to plead with one of the neigh-
bors for aid in attending her.

AH these necessary duties served to
keep my mind from dwelling upon the
terrible ordeal through which we had
gone. But late into the night I lay toss-
ing upon my bed unable to sleep. I did
not dare put out the light in my room,
so fearful was I of the shadows of the
dark.

All night long I was haunted, haunted,
afraid to close my eyes lest I shoutd see
that grim vision of distorted flesh.

Once a window-shutter, loose from

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

its fastenings, swayed noisily in the
wind, and I screamed in terror.

But when the dawn came and the gas
grew wan against the light of day, with
weariness and exhaustion I fell at last
into a deep sleep.

I was awakened by a knocking at the
door.

"Come in!" I called, but in a voice
which I could scarce recognize as my
own.

Mrs. Seagle, the neighbor who had
taken care of my stricken landlady,
pushed an untidy head through the open
doorway.

"There's someone to see you, sir," she
said.

It was someone from the office, J fan-
cied, to know why I had not gone to
work. I felt a wave of rebellious an-
noyance, because, for this one dreadful
day, I might not be left in peace.

"Well!" I cried petulantly as Mrs.
Seagle did not move, "show the man
up!"

"It's a lady."

"A lady," I echoed in consternation.

The woman grinned meaningly at me.

"Confound your impudence !" I cried,
"show the lady into Mrs. Muzzard's
parlor."

"Mrs. Muzzard ain't got no parlor,"
the woman retorted, retreating in some
apprehension at my vehemence.

"Well, then, show her into one > of the
vacant rooms downstairs while I put my
coat on."

As I entered the stuffy room a few
moments later a tall figure clad in black
arose from one of the hideous horse-
hair chairs and approached me.

"Are. you Mr. Scrimgeour?" she
asked. Her voice was low and musically
soft. I looked into a pair of large, wist-
ful eyes. Something about them seemed
familiar to me.

"You are . . ." I hesitated wonder-
ingly.

"I am the daughter of Nathaniel
Broome," she replied, and for a moment
the heavy lids lowered over her eyes.

"I have come from Montreal. The
day before yesterday I received a tele-
gram from my father saying that he was
ill, so, of course, I came at once."

"But have you seen your father. Miss
Broome ?"

"I called here early this morning and
-was told of my poor father's seizure."

"I wasn't told that anyone had called,"
I observed. "It's perhaps due to the
fact that Mrs. Muzzard is ill. You see,
everything is in confusion here . . .
a neighbor ..."

"Yes, I have learned that."

"And your father?" I asked.

"My father, Mr. Scrimgeour, is
dead."

I could only stare, dumb and aston-
ished. "Why haven't I been told?" I
exclaimed at last. "To die like that,
friendless and forsaken !"

"I have just come from my father's
bedside," she replied. "I am here to
bring you the sad news."

"Good God!" I exclaimed, suddenly
remembering. "You saw . . . you
saw . . . ?" I dreaded to ask, yet
wanted most frantically to know.

"I can't understand why," the young
girl went on, looking inquiringly at me.
"but the nurses at the hospital wouldn't
let me take the cloth from my father's
face."

I did not dare to look into her eyes.
I could not reply.

"My father once told me in one of his
letters that in case of anything happen-
ing to him I was to come to you for
advice and for guidance. I have come
now. Will you tell me what you know ?
It all seems very strange. I . . .
I'm at a loss to understand. You will
not refuse?"

With the pleading charm of her eyes

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

her overwhelming beauty encompassed
me like a wave of some divine ether car-
rying me off my middle-aged feet.

"Dear friend," I replied, scarce able
to keep the agitation from my voice, "I
shall refuse you nothing in my power.
Your father has left a number of pa-
pers which he hinted to me in words I
didn't understand would tell us all we
wished to know." My heart warmed
under the look of gratitude in her eyes.

"And those papers, where are they?"
she cried eagerly.

"The room, I fancy, is still untouched
as we left it yesterday."

"Let us go then ; I am all impatience."

Gravely I led the way upstairs to the
ill-fated room. The naked boards of
the old stairs creaked abominably as we
trod upon them, and, thinking of the
wretchedness of the upper rooms, I
was ashamed.

VII

The papers upon the table lay just as
they had been left upon the previous
day.

"Each page is numbered," said Miss
Broome, looking them over. "We shall
find little difficulty in reading them."

She busied herself collating the scat-
tered leaves, bending her head to hide
the turbulent emotion in her eyes.

Turning, with a wistful smile, she
handed them to me.

"Here they are in their correct order,"
she said. "Would you care to read them
aloud to me?"

"As you wish," I replied gravely, ac-
cepting the papers.

I hesitated for a moment, glancing at
the young girl. Pier radiant freshness
seemed to be smothered in that tawdry
setting.

"I'll open the window." I ventured ;
"the place is airless."

The manuscript bore every evidence
of hasty writing and was difficult, at

first, to read ; but after a page or two
I grew accustomed to it and went on
smoothly enough, my companion, listen-
ing quietly, not uttering a word.

What follows here has been copied
down word for word from tliat astound-
ing narrative known as "The Strange
Case of Nathaniel Broome":

VIII

Feeling that I have only a short
while to live, I must try to set down, as
clearly and as concisely as possible, the
true story of my unfortunate life.

Scrimgeour, who has proved so big-
hearted a friend, has a right to know.
How often have I not seen that look of
baffled inquiry in his gentle eyes when
they rested upon my seemingly quiet,
untroubled face!

And Marguerite, my daughter, who
has been the object of my deepest af-
fection, what must she think of me!
Poor child, she, too, has every right to
be told.

But such a tale: fantastic, incredible
as the ravings of an opium-haunted
nightmare. . . .

My hand trembles; my eyes grow
misty; I must make haste before it is
too late.

My father, Lemuel Broome, was an
artist, and from him, together with great
physical beauty, I inherited a deep,
.esthetic feeling for the beautiful.

My mother died upon giving birth
to me. I was their only child.

I learned, in my childish years, to seek
for Beauty and to know Beauty in
everything.

"Beauty is Virtue ; Ugliness is Sin."
"That," my father used to say to me.
"is all you know and all you need to
know."

Small wonder is it then that as I
grew from boyhood, through youth to
manhood, sheltered and alone with my
father, this doctrine of Beauty grew

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

with me, became a part of my very soul.

I shunned all ugliness ; ugly thoughts,
ugly places, ugly people. The servants
about my father's house and estate were
chosen for their good looks and not for
their trustworthiness or their honesty.

My education was given me by pri-
vate tutor at home, so that I need not
suffer the vulgar contamination of a
public school. In fact, until after his
death, I had scarce set foot outside the
high stone walls of my father's home.

When I was twenty years of age my
father died.

Ignorant as I was of business or of
the ugly ways of the world, I was a fair
target for the cunning of any scoundrel
who might chance to come into my
path.

Such an enterprising person was my
tutor, James Shirley. He was probably
the most physically perfect specimen of
a man that I have ever seen; but to
that flawless beauty there was added an
equally flawless lack of' moral principle.

The details of his swindles and more
heinous crimes may be found among
the prison records. Suffice it to say that
before James Shirley died he had suc-
ceeded in robbing me of almost every-
thing I possessed. Then, reduced prac-
tically to beggary, I met the woman
who since became my wife.

Though Angela has been dead fifteen
years, I still cannot think of her with-
out emotion. She was the most beauti-
ful woman whom I have ever seen, the
most radiantly lovely ; a wealth of grace,
of tender sweetness and charm. For
five years we lived a life of well-nigh
perfect happiness.

It is true my wife could never quite
understand my unusual outlook upon
life. She was amazed and sometimes a
little fearful of my acute physical hor-
ror of ugliness. Yet, secure in her own
surpassing loveliness, she sought only to
please me and to be pleasing in my eyes.

Shortly after our ^daughter Mar-

guerite was born I began to notice a
change in Angela. It was not that she
had grown less beautiful, for mother-
hood had only added a new tenderness
to her charms. No, the subtle change
which I divined in her and mutely won-
dered at was to be found only in the ex-
pression of her eyes. The change which
I thought could be noticed in them, how-
ever, was something that for a long
time I could not find words to explain.

One evening as we sat together talk-
ing in the twilight, following some odd
remark of hers, I glanced sharply at her
and caught the weird expression for a
moment in her face.

"My dearest," I exclaimed, "is there
something the matter?"

She smiled and the strange look van-
ished.

"Why do you ask that question ?" she
returned. Then I told her of the fears
which I had lately felt concerning her.

My explanation seemed deeply to
move her,

"Oh, my dear, my dear," she cried,
"you fill me with horror. For days past
I have been trying to argue with myself
that it has all been my childish fancy.
I have told myself that over and over
again. But now ... if you, too, have
seen it, it must be true!"

"Tell me, for heaven's sake," I cried
in alarm, "tell me what it is!"

"Oh, I'm so much afraid! The ter-
ror of it has haunted me for so long!
And yet you will protect me — if it's
humanly possible to be protected."

"That is my right, dear," I answered.
"Tell me."

"Come, then," she replied, and led me
to the large mirror hanging above the
mantel-piece.

"Stand perfectly still behind me, so.
and look with all your courage at my re-
flection in the glass."

White with excitement engendered by
the deathly seriousness of her words, I
stood as she bade me, and gazed at our

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

two faces, pale and drawn, reflected in
the mirror.

Her countenance, beautiful as a ma-
donna's, was aglow from the flickering,
mellow light of the grate fire. I stared
at her, half mad with her loveliness.

"You have never been so beautiful,"
I began. The scent from her hair and
the nearness of her adorable self; the
smoothness of her bare shoulders, made
the blood leap intoxicatingly in my
veins. I wanted to kneel to her. I
yearned with all my soul to worship, to
abase my body at her exquisite feet.

"You are wonderfully beautiful — "

"Wait — wait ! Keep looking into the
mirror!" she whispered. .

"Is there — is there any change?" she
asked fearfully.

"No," I replied, and she gave a deep
sigh of relief. Then slowly her image
in the mirror began to grow misty and
indistinct.

"It's a trick!" I cried, and my voice
seemed high and strained. "It's a trick !
You are playing a joke upon me !"

"Then, it is true," I heard her say in
a hard, cold voice.
. "What— in God's name!"

"Look, look and you shall see!"

The blurred image in the looking-
glass started to clear.

But instead of the face of my wife
there began to take shape an image so
hideous, so ghoulish, that I can only
compare it to the disintegration of — of
a human corpse !

At this point in the extraordinary
narrative I stopped reading. For, hap-
pening to glance up from the manu-
script, I saw such' horror in my listen-
er's eyes that I had not the courage to
continue.

"It is too harrowing," I said. "J
must not go on."

"Read, read, my friend," replied Miss

Broome, shielding her eyes with her
hands. I wondered at the remarkable
nervous force displayed by one so
young.

"Then first allow me to get you a
drink of water," I replied.

She thanked me with a gracious incli-
nation of her head as I returned with
the glass. As she accepted it from my
hand her cool fingers touched me. Some-
thing leaped in my turgid veins at the
contact, and I resumed the reading of
the story.

There was something, however,
which I was able to notice even during
the panic of fear that possessed me. I
saw that the mysterious transmission of
flesh had not changed the eyes. I seized
my wife by the shoulders and turned
her sharply about.

Her face was as I had always seen it,
radiantly, hauntingly beautiful. The only
change was in her eyes. Staring search-
ingly into them I tried with all my mind
to read what I saw there. And the look
that was in them was Pain.

We were both of us horribly fright-
ened after our extraordinary experi-
ence, and sat up discussing it all night
long, while little Marguerite, all unsus-
pecting, lay sleeping peacefully upstairs.

The gruesome illusion hung over our
spirits for days. Neither one of us
dared to leave the other for a moment
alone. The shadows were peopled with
ghosts, and dark places became hideous
with the hidden menace.

I had all the mirrors in the house re-
moved, and when we went out into the
streets I hurried my wife past shop
windows with averted eyes, afraid to see
in some chance looking-glass the spec-
tre that had become the terror of our
lives.

I awoke each morning afraid to look
into her eyes ; I went to sleep beside her

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome 91

with dread in my miserable soul. For
always the terror haunted us, that some
day I should look into her face and see
without the mirror's baleful aid that fes-
tering putrefaction of flesh and bone.

We sent Marguerite to a convent near
Montreal, so that she, poor child, might
be spared the agonies that kept us fear-
ful and eternal company.

Then, at last, the menace that for so
many weeks had hung over us took tan-
gible shape.

We had been trying to talk lightly to-
gether one evening, trying pitifully to
avoid the one subject uppermost in our
minds.

I was sitting close to my wife with an
arm about her waist. Suddenly I felt
her body shiver slightly under my touch.

'•What is it?" I asked. "Are you
cold?"

The answer came to me in halting,
distorted words, as if she were speak-
ing with very great difficulty.

"You'll not escape from me if I have
to follow you from the grave I" But the
voice that spoke was not the voice of my
wife. Labored, painwracked though it
was, I could recognize it. It was the
voice of my old tutor, James Shirley!

I leaped from my chair, and in the
horror that was written in my face my
wife needed no mirror to see that at
last the dreaded visitation had come and
that the fleshly metamorphosis had
taken place.

For one agonizing moment I caught
the look of pain, of unutterable agony
in her eyes, then, with a strangled
scream, she fled from me to hide the
loathsome body which had taken pos-
session of her from my sight.

I followed wildly to her bedroom,
pounding ineffectually upon the door. I
could hear her inside, screaming and
jabbering meaningless noises. She

must have gone completely out of her
mind.

Then followed the sound of some-
thing falling and the smash of breaking
glass. I knew that the lamp had been
overturned. A moment later the smell
of burning came to me through the door.

My desperate efforts finally succeeded
in getting the door open.

I found the room ablaze, the oil from
the lamp having spread all over the
carpet. The window curtains had
caught fire and the place was thick with
smoke.

But writhing on the floor, a mass of
leaping, venomous flame, my wife Jay,
filling the choking air with agonizing
shrieks and heart-rending groans.

I seized her with one arm, attempting
with the other hand to beat out the
flames; but they only leaped about her
more triumphantly than before.

By this time the conflagration had
spread about us and I was obliged to
carry her downstairs and out into the
street.

I found shelter for my melancholy
burden with some kind neighbors.
Meanwhile my home was given over to
the flames.

XII

Angela never spoke again. Her
charred and mutilated body was buried,
but I alone knew what it was which we
had put into the grave. For the ma-
lignity which had pursued her, finding
an easier entry into her passive mind,
did not rest with her death. The evil
spirit transferred itself to me I

In the phantom-haunted, grisly years
that followed, through nights of fiendish
mental torture and of bodily agony I
learned a terrible intimacy with her
ghostly murderer.

What I have found out will be in-
credible and preposterous to those who
know nothing of spirit visitation or pos-

The Strange Case of Nathaniel Broome

session; to those narrow-minded skep-
tics who brush aside all evidence of
psychic phenomena as the unhinged
ravings of the insane.

Scrimgeour, who has known me inti-
mately during the last few months, can
vouch, however, for my sanity and my
reason.

But I have other evidences to support
my statements. I have the testimony of
a host of scientific investigators as well
as the indisputable experiences of
countless men and women who have
given years to the study of this ex-
traordinary mystery.

And more than all these, I know! — I
know! I, who write these lines, trem-
bling with fear at the fate awaiting me,
lurking here in my very room 1 Waiting
patiently, craftiness, cunning incarnate.
Sometimes he sits in that far-off corner
leering at me, contorting his ghastliness
into still more loathsome expressions.
There he taunts me, dares me, whisper-
ing to me words so lewd, so obscene, so
frightful that I wonder the very walls
do not tumble about us at their lasciv-
ious echoes.

And I know that, soon, soon, he will
come nearer, he will dare to come
nearer as he dared with my wife's most
beautiful body. He will take posses-
sion of me as he took possession of her.

Already I have seen his shadow in the
glass, and I know that it is the begin-
ning of the end.

James Shirley, who lived a life of
crime, of loathsome debauch and lasciv-
iousness upon earth; James Shirley,
whose body has long lain putrescent in
its convict's grave, will creep at last
into my soul, my brain; will take pos-

session of my very body, leaving me
only his rotting carcass which lies
mouldering in its tomb. . . .

XIII

Here the manuscript ended. The pa-
pers dropped from my fingers and fell
rustling to the floor.

Between us for several moments there
was complete silence. The girl's cheeks
were white as marble ; her eyes big with
terror.

Through the open window the quiet
hum of the street traffic reached us,
borne on the summer breeze. There the
day's occupation spent itself in calm,
unhurrying routine. . . .

I could hear a messenger boy whis-
tling merrily. . . .

A young girl laughed.

The clanging of insistent bells min-
gled with the occasional drone of motor
horns. Life, with its unimaginative
sameness, was near, was all about us,
yet we had no part in it.

Robbed by death of his earth body,
James Shirley had killed twice in his
feverish yearning to live again. 1
seemed to feel the presence of his ma-
levolent spirit hovering about us, an
eidolon, reaching out lustful, discarnate
arms, trying, longing, aching for life.

Marguerite Broome, transcendently
beautiful, with all the delicate aroma,
the fresh intoxication of flowers about
her, sat before me under the shadow of
an impending doom. And I, old, with-
ered, ridiculous in my new-found emo-
tions, I who loved her, I who wor-
shipped her, could only stare at her, im-
potent and pitifully afraid. . . .

The Man Who Would Not Die

By Harold Ward

A WOMAN, young, handsome,
richly dressed, lay dead on<the
sidewalk. Over her stood a
young man, hatless, his hair
mussed, his face bruised and bleed-
ing. Around them — the living and
the dead — the crowd surged, held back
by a little cordon of blue-coated police-
men. A police automobile, its gong
clanging raucously, dashed up to the
curb and a tall, broad-shouldered man
in plain clothes leaped out and elbowed
his way through the throng of curiosity
seekers to the sergeant in charge.

"Great Heavens, Casey!" he ex-
claimed, as his glance fell upon the face
of the woman. "Do you know who she
is?"

Casey touched his cap respectfully.
"Tliis chap here says that she's Mrs.
Augustus Winters, the young wife that
old Winters, the millionaire, married a
couple of years ago. Used to be an ac-
tress before she married him, I under-
stand. I don't know the lady myself,
inspector."

The big man nodded. "He's right,
Casey. It's Mrs. Winters all right."
He caught himself with a start. "No,
by George, it isn't !"

The bareheaded young man with the
bruised face interrupted. "You are
wrong, sir. / know that it is Mrs. Win-
ters."

The inspector gave him a quick look.
"You mean that you think it is she.
The fact of the matter is that Mrs.
Winters died suddenly yesterday after-
noon."

"You must be wrong," argued the
other stubbornly. "I have waited on
Mrs. Winters hundreds of times. I

know her as well as I know myself.
And she was alive and well ten min-
utes ago."

"Couldn't you be mistaken? I'll ad-
mit that this woman looks enough like
her to be her double. Must be her sis-
ter."

"I insist that you are wrong, sir. I'll
take my oath that this is Mrs. Winters
lying there."

Inspector Des Moines scratched his
chin reflectively. "It's got me beat!"
he declared. "There's only one thing
to do, under the circumstances, Casey
— get the body to the morgue and send
for old Winters to identify it. Ask
him if his wife was a twin. And,"
turning to the young man, "you get
your hat and come on with me to the
station. I want to have a talk with you."

Seated at the big, flat-top desk in his
well appointed office, Des Moines light-
ed a cigar in silence, offered another to
his companion, then suddenly de-
manded :

"Now, come clean, young fellow.
What's the story behind this affair?
Let's have the straight of it"

The lad — he was scarcely more than
a boy — gulped to hide his agitation.

"I — I — " he stammered.

The inspector smiled kindly. "Don't
get scared, my boy. Don't get scared.
Bless your heart, sonny, I know that
you didn't kill the woman. I only want
to get at the facts in the case as speed-
ily as possible. Just forget my gruff
way of speaking — it's ray natural
voice."

"I hardly know how to start," began

The Man Who Would Not Die

the other, his fears vanishing under the
inspector's kindly manner. "The lady
— Mrs. Winters^-came into Harden &
Company's store, where I am employed
as head salesman in the jewelry depart-
ment, and asked to be shown something
rather 'nifty' in a diamond brooch.
That was yesterday afternoon. She
looked at a number of pieces, finally
selecting one valued at thirty thousand
dollars. She asked me to lay it aside
for her, stating that she wanted her
mother, who was buying it for her for
a birthday present, to look at it before
she made her final decision.

"This morning she returned and,
coming into the store, requested that I
accompany her to the curb with the
brooch, as her mother, who was an in-
valid, was outside in the limousine. Of
course it was irregular, but she is an
old customer — you know Harden &
Company's policy — so I did as request-
ed. I handed her the jewel case just
as we reached the machine and she
passed it in to the woman — whom I
supposed was her mother — who was
leaning back against the cushions. The
curtains were down and the interior
was in semi-darkness, so I did not get
a clear view of the face of the lady.

"Just as she handed the other the
jewel, the chauffeur, who had been
keeping his engine running, leaned out
and slugged me with something — a
sandbag, I imagine. At the same time
Mrs. Winters made a quick leap for
the interior of the machine. But, in-
voluntarily, as I fell I grasped her, and
we went down in a heap together.

"The chauffeur immediately started
his machine and, before I recovered my
wits, which had been largely knocked
out of me, he was around the corner.
I didn't even have an opportunity to
get the number of the auto."

"We have already attended to that,"
interrupted the inspector. "Casey '11
have it down in his notebook if anyone

in the vicinity chanced to notice it.
Were there many people on the side-
walk at the time?"

"They were constantly passing — the
usual ten o'clock crowd."

"Um-m-m. All right, go ahead with
your story."

"There is nothing more to tell.
When I came to my senses — and I
couldn't have been dazed more than a
second or two — the machine was dis-
appearing around the corner, as I just
told you, and the woman was lying on
the sidewalk beside me — dead. It must
have- been apoplexy, inspector, for I'll
swear on a stack of Bibles that I didn't
seize her hard enough to kill her." He
hesitated, then continued, haltingly:
"But what puzzles me is why Mrs.
Winters — a woman of untold wealth —
would stoop to aid in a crime like that."

He looked at the inspector for an
answer to his question. The latter
smoked in silence for a second. "That's
what we've got to find out, my boy.
You said your name was — "

"Johnson — Adolph Johnson."

"Oh, yes. And she got away clean
with the jewelry did she? The other
woman — the one in the machine — and
the chauffeur?"

Johnson nodded.

They were interrupted by a rap at the
door. In response to Des Moines' gruff
"Come in !" Casey entered, his good-na-
tured, red face glowing with excitement.

"What the dickens do you know about
it, sir?" he exploded. "Winters has
identified the body, positively, as being
that of his wife."

"But Mrs. Winters died yesterday af-
ternoon."

"She did. But sometime during the
night her body disappeared. And this
morning they found the body of her
maid, dead, in the casket from which the
mistress had been taken I"

"Good God! Murdered?"

"Not a mark on her body."

The Man Who Would Not Die

III

Before the inspector could recover
from his astonishment, the door burst
open and a man, grey-haired, tall, angu-
lar — beyond the middle age — rushed in
without the formality of rapping. His
wrinkled face was drawn and haggard,
his eyes bloodshot and red from weep-
ing, his whole appearance that of a man
almost bereft of his senses.

"Inspector," he shrieked, "who is the
guilty man? Who has desecrated the
poor, dead body of my wife? Who stole
it from the casket ? Damn them ! Damn
them! Damn them! Who murdered
Dolly, her maid ? She was murdered, I
say ! I know it ! I know it !"

He glared about him for a second.
Then: "Give him to me, I say! I'll
tear the scoundrel to pieces with my
naked hands! Give him to me! I de-
mand justice!"

He dropped into a chair and burst into
hysterical sobs. For an instant there
was silence. Des Moines chewed thought-
fully on his cigar. Johnson, white-faced,
unused to scenes such as this, fidgeted
nervously, his fingers twitching. Assum-
ing the quieting tone of a mother ad-
dressing her child, the inspector turned
to the weeping man.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Winters," he be-
gan, slowly. "I know that it's hard —
it's awful, terrible. But we'll get at the
bottom of it some way. I promise you
on my word as a man that I'll capture
the guilty wretch and hang him. Yes,
curse him ! I'll hang him higher than a
kite, or I'll quit the force! But the affair
is growing more puzzling every minute.
I can't make head nor tail out of it as it
stands now. Won't you let me hear your
story ?"

Winters sat up and dried his eyes.
"What can I tell you ?" he sobbed. "How
shall I begin?"

"Start with the death of your wife."

"There is little to tell. She was strick-

en, suddenly, yesterday afternoon while
dressing to go out. Dolly Matthews, her
maid, who was with her at the time, hast-
ily summoned assistance. But she passed
away before rhe doctor arrived — in fact,
even before the servants, who responded
to Miss Matthews' cries, could reach her.
The physician — Doctor Bennett, the well
known specialist — gave as his opinion
that the cause of death was heart failure.

"The body was prepared for burial in
the usual way. I sat beside the casket
until nearly morning. Then, in response
to the urgent appeals of the friends and
relatives who had rushed to my side in
my hour of trouble, I surrendered my
post to Miss Matthews. The poor girl
loved my wife devotedly and was terribly
grief stricken over her untimely death.
And now she's gone, too !" He burst
into another paroxysm of sobbing. Des
Moines waited until he regained control
of himself, then motioned for him to
continue.

"I could not content myself. My
nerves were nearly at the breaking point,
although the physician had given me an
opiate to quiet me. After lying on the
bed and tossing around for an hour or
two, I arose and again sought the side of
my dear one. I was surprised not to find
Miss Matthews in the room, which was
empty, although there, were several peo-
ple in the study just across the hall.

"/ stepped to the casket. As there is
a God in Heaven, the body of my wife
was gone! In its place was the body of
Dolly, her maid, cold in death!"

"There was no evidence of foul play in
the case of the maid ?"

"No, although I am certain, under the
circumstances, that she was murdered.
She couldn't have died a natural death
and crawled into the casket herself, could
she?" He glared at the inspector as if
expecting a denial. Receiving no answer
lie continued :

"My cries brought those who were in
the other room and we immediately sum-

The Man Who Would Not Die

moned Doctor Bennett, who made an
examination. He would not even venture
an opinion as to what caused death.

"Meanwhile, I was almost beside my-
self. Can you blame me? We searched
the house from cellar to garret, looking
for the remains of my wife. Failing to
find her body, we were about to call up
police headquarters — which we should
have done in the beginning; — when I re-
ceived'the call to go Jo the morgue. There
I found the poor dear. I demand that
immediate steps be taken to bring the
perpetrator of the hellish deed to jus-
tice ! I am a wealthy man. I will spend
every cent I possess to hang the wretch.
Damn him !"

Inspector Des Moines scratched his
chin reflectively. "It's got me beat, Mr.
Winters. I'll confess that I never came
across a case like this in all of my twenty
years on the force. You are ready to
swear that your wife died yesterday af-
ternoon and that you saw her body in
the coffin. A reputable physician made an
examination and pronounced her dead.
Yet — Are you sure that the body you
examined in the morgue is that of Mrs.
Winters?"

"Positively. I identified it, not only by
her sweet girlish face, but by a small
birthmark on her left shoulder."

"She had no sister? She was not a
twin?"

"She*was an only child."

"Then, Mr. Winters, how do you rec-
oncile your story with that of Mr. John-
son, here, who swears that the woman
whose body you saw in the morgue, and
have identified as your wife, was alive
and well at ten o'clock this morning?
Yes, he even goes farther and asserts
that he talked to her and that she, aided
by two others, robbed Harden & Com-
pany of a valuable diamond brooch."

Winters leaped to his feet, his eyes
blazing, his face aflame witfc rage. "He's
an infernal liar and a blackguard — "

Before he could continue, there was a
B. M. — Sept. — 7

rap at the door. Des Moines' secretary
entered. He handed the inspector an en-
velope marked "Important. Winters
Case."

The policeman tore the envelope open
and glanced hastily over the contents.
Then, with an oath, he read it aloud to
the others:

My dear Inspector: I have just start-
ed. I am Lcssman, tlte man who laughs
at death! I killed Mrs. Winters! I
killed her as I have killed others — and as
I will kill again — by the power of
thought alone! Unravel that if you can.

What is death, my dear inspector?
Who knows? No one but me. Wltat is
the human body? Only a prison in which
the soul is confined — a piece of clay to
be discarded at will. God kills when he
wishes. Why not I? It suited my pur-
pose to use the mortal form of Mrs.
Winters, and I took it.

Hereafter, I will give you due and
timely notice of each crime I commit —
and I assure you that tliey will be nu-
merous.

With best wishes, I sign myself
Lessman, The Man Who Will Not Die.

The Winters' mystery was the most
interesting news event of the day and
the afternoon papers made the most of
it. At its best, the city administration
was not a favorite with the press. Au-
gustus Winters was wealthy and popu-
lar, his wife had been one of the leaders
of the faster young society set. As a re-
sult, the police department was grilled to
a turnover for what was termed the
laxity of its methods.

Inspector Des Moines, accustomed to
the vagaries of journalism, used to being
praised one day and reviled the next,
gave little heed to what was said or writ-
ten about him or his department. Yet
he read every detail carefully in the hope
that the reporters had gathered some

The Man Who Would Not Die

new evidence that would tend to help
in working out the solution of the puz-
zle. For in the past he had secured much
valuable help from the newspaper men.
But this time he was doomed to disap-
pointment. They could find nothing —
absolutely nothing — .that gave him any
additional light.

Nothing had been left undone. Men
from the inspector's office had combed
the city in search of a clew to the mys-
terious Lessman. But without avail.
Only the machine used in the Harden &
Company robbery had been found.
Stolen earlier in the day from a garage
in the outskirts of the city, it had been
abandoned by the side of a country road
when the users were through with it. Be-
yond that one small detail, no headway
had been made.

The newspapers had assigned their
best man to the case. They could secure
not even a trace of the unknown perpe-
trator of the startling crimes — for Des
Moines had not thought it advisable to
take the press into his confidence in so
far as the threatening letter he had re- 4
ceived was concerned.

Tired and disgruntled, he was about
to leave the office, for the night, when the
'phone on his desk thrilled. He picked
the receiver from its hook and answered.

"Inspector Des Moines?" queried a
heavy, male voice.

Des Moines answered in the affirma-
tive. The man at the other end of the
line chuckled to himself.

"Well ?" growled the Inspector. "Did
you call me to the 'phone at this time of
the night to tell me a joke?"

Instantly, the quiet laughter ceased
and the voice came clear and strong
across the space. "No, inspector, I beg
your pardon. This is Lessman speak-
ing! — Lessman, the Man Who Will Not
Die ! I imagined that I would catch you
in your office. I had a notion to call
around and see you, then thought better
of it. Can you understand me all right ?

"Now, listen to me carefully, Des
Moines. I told you that I would give
you fair warning when I was ready to
make my next move. I always keep my
word. Are you listening? Tomorrow
morning, on the stroke of ten, I am go-
ing to kill a man! Where? Oh, no, I
have no objection to telling you where —
on the street in front of 1416 Broadway
— yes, 1416 Broadway! Probably a
policeman ! No, no, not you. But be
on the job, inspector. I am doing this
for a purpose. I hate the police, damn
them ! But it will give you an opportu-
nity of studying my methods. Ha, ha!
You and I will match wits frequently
from now on.

"Oh, yes. Before I say good night I'll
make you a promise. If you'll be pres-
ent tomorrow, I'll promise you that I
will do my best to hunt you up and talk
with you. You need not go to -the trou-
ble of notifying the papers, for I have
done that myself. I've asked them all
to send their best men. That's all for
this time. Good-bye!"

The receiver at the other end was
hung up with a click.

Then Des Moines was galvanized into
action. Frantically he jiggled the hook
up and down until Central answered
sharply.

"Quick!" he demanded. "This is In-
spector Des Moines at Headquarters.
Where did that call come ffom just
now ? Get on the job and find out. Fifty
dollars in it for you if you'll find out
immediately I"

"Hold the line, please!"

Thirty seconds later his vigilance was
rewarded.

"This is the Chief Operator. The call
you inquired about came from booth
number fourteen at the Biltmore. Send
the reward to Operator One-hundred-
and-Six, please."

To seethe a connection with the
switchboard operator at the Biltmore re-
quired only an instant.

The Man Who Would Not Die

"Inspector Des Moines, Headquar-
ters, speaking. A man just called me up
from booth number fourteen. There's a
ten in it for you if you'll get a descrip-
tion of Jiim for me inside of a minute.
Do you understand ? Move fast !"

"You can send the ten right along, in-
spector. The man who used booth num-
ber fourteen stopped at the desk and
gave me a tip as he passed out. He just
went through the door a second ago."

"Fine! Fine! His description?
Quick!"

"You know him, inspector. // was
Augustus Winters, the millionaire!"

Inspector Des Moines was a man
of action. While even his best friends
did not claim for him the brilliancy of a
Sherlock Holmes, a Cleek of The Forty
Faces, an Arsene Lupin, or any of the
other celebrated sleuths of fiction, yet,
once given the slender thread of a clew,
he followed it to the end. The taunting
telephone call led him to believe that, in
Augustus Winters, he had the master
mind who was directing the crimes in the
millionaire's own household*. Why Win-
ters would make way with his wife and
her maid — for the detective was firmly
of the belief that both women had been
murdered — he did not attempt to reason
out. He only knew that a crime had
been committed and that he, as an officer
of the law, was pledged to find the mur-
derer, regardless of who he might be.
Just now all straws pointed to Augustus
Winters himself.

He believed that Winters had over-
looked a point in telephoning from a
public booth in a hotel where he was so
well known ; that he was likely to recall
his indiscretion and, in an effort to re-
trieve his lost ground, hasten home in
order to provide himself with an alibi,
the officer believed, would be his next
move. Consequently, to checkmate that

alibi and prove it false from its very in-
ception was the obvious thing to do.

He reached for the telephone again
and called the number of the million-
aire's residence. Not over three or four
minutes had elapsed since Winters —
or Lessman, as the inspector believed
him to be — had talked to him from the
Biltmore. To drive from the hotel to
his home would take the better part of
an hour, even with a fast car. It would
take nearly as long to go from Head-
quarters. And there was always the
danger of an accident. Des Moines
thought rapidly, then made his decision.
The telephone was faster and better than
making the trip in person and standing
the possible chance of having the aged
criminal — and the inspector now had no
doubts on that score — reach there first.

A sleepy voice answered his ring.
"Augustus Winters' residence," it said.

"Who is this ?" he demanded.

"Wilkins, the butler, sir." .

"Has Mr. Winters returned, yet?"

"He has not been out, sir."

"Let me talk to him then." Des Moines
chuckled softly to himself as he made
the demand. He knew that there was no
possibility of the millionaire replying.
And the testimony of Wilkins would
support his charges when the time came
to prove the falsity of the alibi.

"I'll connect you with his room, sir,"
answered the butler. A second later the
inspector was astonished to hear the
clear, calm voice of Winters at the other
end of the wire. It nearly floored him.
He was almost too nonplussed to reply.
For Winters, obviously, could not be in
two places at once. If this was Win-
ters, then the man who had called him
up from the Biltmore must, necessarily,
be an impostor. And what manner of
man was he who could disguise
himself so cleverly that even those who
were personally acquainted with the
millionaire mistook the counterfeit for
the real?

100

The Man Who Would Not Die

"Des Moines speaking. When did
you get back ?" he asked casually, making
an effort to hide the agitation that he
felt.

"When did I get back? I was not
aware that I had been away I" answered
the other testily. "What was it you
wanted, inspector? Must be something
important to call up at two o'clock
in the morning. Have you secured
some new information? Or, possibly
you have the guilty wretch under ar-
rest?"

Des Moines knew that he was defeat-
ed. The least he could do was back out
gracefully. It was not necessary to di-
vulge his suspicions. He informed Win-
ters as casually as he was able of the
telephone message he had received from
"The Man Who Would Not Die." re-
serving, however, the information tliat
the other had been masquerading as
Winters. Then, he abruptly hung up the
phone. .

The case was growing more puzzling
every minute. Instead of the telephone
call clearing up the mystery, he was
forced to confess to himself that it only
made it darker.

Wao was Lessman, the man who
termed himself "The Man Who Would
Not Die"? Was there such a person,
or was it an alias? Des Moines,
humped up in his chair, chewing his
dry cigar, went oyer the case detail by
detail. Figuratively speaking, he held
it up to the light and dissected it bit by
bit, piece by piece. And, when he had
completed the process, he was obliged
to confess himself as much in the dark
as ever.

Who was Lessman? Who was the
man of iron nerve and diabolical cun-
ning? Could it be Winters? The in-
spector had been inclined to suspect the
aged moneybags — was still disposed to

do so — but what was his motive? Was
he insane? Had he the ability — and
the nerve — to carry out such a plot?
And there, too, was his alibi, cast-iron,
puncture proof.

If Winters was not Lessman, who
was? Could it be Doctor Bennett?
The physician admittedly had more op-
portunity to commit the murders than
any one else. But, in his case, too,
there was lacking the motive. Could
young Johnson, the diamond salesman,
be the man? In his case there was a
motive — the theft of the brooch. But,
on the other hand, there was nothing to
show that he had ever visited the Win-
ters home under any pretext. And it
was natural to suppose that the person
who could cause the death of both the
mistress and the maid must have had,
sometime at least, entree to the million-
aire's residence. Des Moines had had
both the physician and the salesman in-
vestigated The reports of his men, ly-
ing on the desk before him, showed
nothing against them.

Who had spirited the body of Mrs.
Winters from its casket? How could
she, a dead woman, be alive? And
Johnson, as well as other employees of
Harden & Company, swore that she
had been? They had seen her — talked
with her — nearly twenty- four hours
after her reported death. How had the
body of the maid been placed in the
casket the mistress had occupied? Who
was the disguised man who had so
cleverly passed himself off on the em-
ployees of the Biltmore as Augustus
Winters?"

It was not until dawn was breaking
that Des Moines gave up wrestling
with the problem. And when, at last,
tired and stiff from his long vigil, he
arose and stretched himself, he was
forced to admit that he knew no more
than when he had first been called into
the case.

There was nothing to do but wait.

The Man Who Would Not Die

101

VII

Human nature is peculiar. A circus
always advertises a thriller as its chief
attraction ; people attend in the hope of
seeing the performer make the one lit-
tle miscalculation that will end fatally.
The newspapers had heralded the an-
nouncement sent them by Less-
man in huge type. Their front pages
shrieked forth in colored ink and huge
type the news that at ten o'clock the
mysterious man who in his letter con-
fessed to the murder of Mrs. Winters
and her maid would take another life.

For miles people came for the pur-
pose of enjoying what promised to be
a thrilling spectacle. A score of police-
men attempted to stem the tide, but
without success. Around 1416 Broad-
way, the street was packed for blocks
in either direction. Even the reserves
were called into action.

In front of 1416 a knot of police-
men, headed by Inspector Des Moines
in person, waited stolidly, silently, in a
suppressed fever of excitement, like
soldiers waiting the signal for an at-
tack. About them the crowd surged
and stormed. But bent upon keeping
the fiend from carrying out his threat,
Des Moines had cleared the street for
a space of nearly a hundred feet, hold-
ing the curiosity seekers back widi his
cordon of hluecoats.

Hundreds of automobiles were
caught in the vortex of humanity, their
drivers unable to either go forward or
to" back out. The officers were forced
to let well enough alone ; to handle the
jam was a task beyond the power of
the guardians of the law.

In one of the machines Des Moines
recognized the pale, haggard face of
Augustus Winters. The millionaire,
huddled up in the back seat, his every
movement showing the mental strain
under which he was laboring, caught
the inspector's eye and beckoned. Des

Moines shouldered his way through the
mass of humanity to the side of his
automobile.

"I've been caught in the crowd, in-
spector, and we're unable to get out.
Can't you help us ? You can understand
the awful agony that I am suffering at
such a time."

Des Moines shook his head. "Don't
you realize, Mr. Winters, that if it
were humanly possible, I'd have this
street cleared and keep it cleared? My
men are working in from the outside —
but it'll be a job of hours, I'm afraid."

"But, my God, man! You are not
going • to allow this murder to take
place, are you?"

Des Moines shrugged his shoulders.
"Out of the hundreds of thousands of
people packed in this vicinity, Mr.
Winters, show me how to pick out the
one man — the man I want. My hands
are tied. There is nothing for me to
do. I must bide my time and wait for
the fiend to strike."

Suddenly, the aged millionaire
clutched the other's shoulder. His
eyes dilated. He leaned forward, his
muscles twitching, his face ashen and
drawn. "Oh, God !" he shrieked. "It's
happening! Look! Look!"

His long, skinny forefinger pointed
far out over the heads of the crowd.
And then he fell in a heap on the bot-
tom of the car in a dead faint.

Des Moines leaped upon the running
board of the machine and gazed in the
direction Winters had pointed. Then,
with a yell, he jumped to the ground,
and, hurling people to the right and
left, plunged through the mass of hu-
manity like a maddened bull.

For Officer Ryan, a strapping figure
of a man, with the muscular figure of
an athlete, who, a second before, had
been in the prime of health, had sud-
denly thrown his arms in the air. For
an instant he wove backwards and for-
wards, his face twisted, every muscle

102

The Man Who Would Not Die

tensed, as if struggling against the un-
seen hands that were pulling him down.
Then he gave voice to a shrill, hideous,
agonized scream, and, lurching like a
drunken man for a pace or two, crum-
pled up in a heap on the pavement.

A dozen of his brother officers
leaped to his assistance. They were
hurled back as if by an electric shock.
Arising, they fought against the invisi-
ble force that held them in its power,
but without avail. Open-mouthed, their
feet fastened to the pavements as by
steel bands, they were forced to stand
and watch the torture of their comrade.

As Des Moines broke through the,
edge of the crowd, the unknown power
that held them in check lessened. In
a body they dashed to the stricken
man's side and turned him on his back.
His eyes were already glazing. His
hands were cold and clammy. On his
forehead was the sweat of death. He
shivered spasmodically. Then his jaw
dropped. Lessman had struck. "The
Man Who Would Not Die" had won
another victory.

Silence. Tense, nerve-racking si-
lence. Eyes were peering, heads mov-
ing. On all sides excitement was visi-
ble on every face. But no one spoke a
word. The agony was too great.

"Boom!" High up in a tower a clock
was striking. Every eye was turned
towards it. But still no word. Only
the soul-straining, awful silence.

"Boom!"

The clock was striking ten. Lessman
had kept his word to the minute. A
woman screamed. Her shrill, hysteri-
cal shriek broke the spell.

Then over the heads of the silent,
awe-filled crowd rang a burst of laugh-
ter—cold, haunting, diabolical laughter
— weird, mysterious — the gloating of a
fiend.

Pandemonium broke loose. Those in
the front lines, frozen with supernatu-

ral terror, turned, white-faced, from
the horror that they had witnessed and
sought an avenue of escape. None
knew but the arch-fiend might continue
— that, any moment, others might fall,
blasted like a tree after a lightning
stroke.

Men fought and struggled to flee
from the invisible. Who knew? Less-
man might be he who stood beside you.
Even now he might be seeking another
victim! Nothing could stop him. He
was omnipotent ! Every man suspected
his neighbor. The police labored with
club and fist. It was like stemming the
ocean's -tide with a shovel. It was a
panic, a riot in which the stronger
trampled the weaker under foot. There
was no mercy — only a desire to escape
from the spot. Men and women
dropped, fainting, exhausted, dying
where they fell, beneath the feet of
their maddened fellows. Their dying
screams only added to the fright of
those who rushed over them. Automo-
biles, their drivers stricken by the fear
that mastered all, dashed madly ahead,
slaughtering and crippling. The pave-
ment, covered with dead and wounded,
was like a battlefield. It was a minia-
ture hell — an inferno created by the
diseased brain of a devil in human
form.

When the officers had finally com-
pleted their task and the street was
cleared — when the last ambulance had
departed with its ghastly load — Des
Moines looked about him for Winters.
He was gone. An officer remembered
seeing the millionaire's machine driv-
ing away, its owner huddled up in the
back seat, shrieking and babbling, his
shoulders shaking with hysterical sobs,
his face wearing the look of a man
who has just escaped from Hades.

The inspector stood deep in thought.
"He said that he'd speak to me! And
yet — dammit all 1 The man never lived
who could act such a part. It can't be

The Man Who Would Not Die

103

him!" And, with a shake of his head,
he returned to his duties.

VIII

In a lonely house in one of the out-
lying districts — a house set down in the
midst of great trees and gardens, sur-
rounded by a high stone wall — dwelt a
man of extraordinary powers. To his
neighbors he was merely an Oriental
gentleman of wealth and refinement,
who preferred solitude in an alien
country to a position of magnificence
and power in his own. But to the initi-
ate — that little band of followers se-
lected from every walk of life — he was
the ambassador of a tiny group of
learned men who, for centuries before
Jesus, the Christ, walked upon this
earth, have been striving to bring about
the regeneration of the world. Their
representatives are to be found in every
large center of population, working
quietly, unostentatiously, teaching,
preaching, gaining an occasional re-
cruit, ever content to bide their time,
, knowing that years are but seconds in
the general scheme of the universe.

Mahommed Gunga, the Master, as
he was known to those who loved and
obeyed him, was a truly wonderful
man. Taken, when a child, by The
Holy Ones, his life had been dedicated
by them to the service of his fellow
creatures. Masters of mystery, delv-
ing far beyond the comprehension of
ordinary humans into the phenomena
of life, they had poured their combined
wisdom into his open ears. And, their
task completed, they had sent him out
into the world, as they had sent many
others before him, to spread the propa-
ganda of the great work to which they
had pledged themselves.

None knew the limits of his power,
none the depths of his great learning.
To him all things were possible. To
him life's mysteries were but common-

places. Master of theosophy, philoso-
phy, and the sciences, what, to the no-
vitiate, seemed to savor of the weird,
the mysterious, the occult, was to his
mighty mind but the working of na-
ture's laws.

It was to the shrine of The Master
that Des Moines always journeyed
when confronted by a puzzle past his
comprehension. For the clear, reason-
ing power of the sage untangled riddles
which, to the ordinary mind, appeared
beyond solution.

So, it was to The Master that the in-
spector hurried as rapidly as his high-
powered car would carry him after the
Broadway horror had shown him the
futility of his reasoning.

He found The Master walking in the
garden, a faraway look in his soft,
dreamy eyes, in silent communion with
nature. Upon the policeman's arrival,
however, his face lighted up and he
shook hands warmly. For Mohammed
Gunga had none of the methods of the
charlatan: to his friends his life was an
open book to be read by all who cared
to take the time.

"Greetings, my friend," he smiled.
"What new problem brings you here
this morning? For I dare not hope
that so busy a man as yourself would
deign to make a purely social call. Come
walk beside me and tell me all about
it." He laughed sadly as he continued :
"Will you never remember, my friend,
that every atom has its master and rec-
ognizes his intelligence? Have we not
been taught to know that we have but
to seek the way by making the pro-
found obeisance of the soul to the
bright star that burns within?"

Des Moines fell into step at his side
and hastily sketched the events of the
past thirty-six hours. For Mohammed
Gunga did not keep in touch with the

104

The Man Who Would Not Die

world; newspapers never passed his
doorway.

When the inspector completed his
tale, The Master turned in his tracks
and, placing his hands on the big man's
shoulders, said in a voice that quivered
with emotion:

"Dear friend, you have rendered the
cause a greater favor than you realize
by bringing your problem to me. For
Lessman, in his egotism, has at last un-
masked himself. Now we can fight
him in the open. But I forget that you
do not understand. Sit here on this
bench with me and let me explain.

"Professor Darius Lessman is,
without a doubt, the greatest intellect
this or any other century has pro-
duced. He was employed at one time
as teacher of psychology in a small, in-
land college. His great ability soon
brought him to the attention of The
Holy Men to whose cause we are all
devoted. You know the lengths to
which they will go to further the
spreading of the great work. They
sought him out. He became the favor-
ite pupil of one in whose footsteps even
I am not fitted to walk. He was tried
in various ways and found not want-
ing. He was taught all — everything.
His wonderful brain grasped in a few
years that which others have spent a
lifetime in learning. So proficient did
he become that plans were made to
send him across the waters for final in-
struction from those, the hem of whose
garments you and I may never hope to
touch.

"The Creator of all things never in-
tended that a man should have the
brain that was bestowed upon Darius
Lessman. The man is an anomaly.
The devil must have had a hand in his
making and, when his training was
completed, took him for his own. For
Lessman, crazed by the power he
found was within him, conceived the
idea of living forever. He believed

that he was greater than the God who

created him.

"For months he practised in secret,
attempting to transfer his soul from one
human body to another at the com-
mand of his will. Failing, he sought
his old Master, told him his secret and
begged him for help. When the Mas-
ter turned upon him in horror and
loathing, he killed the good old man to
protect his own devilish secret.

"Then he fled with a woman he had
captivated v by means of his diabolical
wiles — a pure girl named Meta Va-
netta, who, too, had been an humble
pupil of the murdered Master. She be-
came Lessman's tool — his accomplice.

"Together, they worked out Less-
man's plans in some secret place,
spreading death and destruction wher-
ever they Went in order to gain the hu-
man clay with which to work. We have
followed them, tracking them from
country to country, yet seldom daring
to strike because of our knowledge
that he was our superior. For Lessman
is a monster — a man who laughs at
death. And none has been found strong
enough to kill his twisted soul. The
cell was never made that could hold
him. For he has but to discard his
body and seize upon that of another.
Many men of our faith have met him.
He has killed them all by the power of
his will.

"The brain has not been made that
can match his in a duel of wills. Even
I am fearful of him — and I am backed
by the united intelligence of the Holy
Men who are with me in spirit night
and day. His is a jnind gone wild —
amuck, as you would say in the vernacu-
lar. For years I have prepared myself
for the meeting. Am I fitted for the
ordeal?

"I tell you, my friend, the time lias
come. Lessman must die! We must
kill him for the sake of humanity! Not
as one man kills another. We must

The Man Who Would Not Die

105

kill his soul, even though we are forced
to call upon the Holy Ones for aid.
For the time you-^nust forget that you
are the policeman, and become the pro-
tector of mankind. We must gird our-
selves for the battle, trusting m God to
protect the right. Now do you under-
stand?"

Des Moines drew a trembling hand
across his brow, from which the sweat
was pouring. "God," he muttered,
hoarsely. "It's horrible — unbelievable."

The Master patted his shoulder af-
fectionately. "I realize it, my friend.
Yet, to a certain extent, you have been
trained to see that which, to the ordi-
nary mind, appears obtuse. Multiply
that which you know, and understand,
by hundreds, and you comprehend my
wisdom. And I am but an infant in
intellect compared to Darius Lessman.

"The man cares for but two things
— riches and power. Seek for the man
who would profit most by the death of
Augustus Winters. And, when you
have found him, return to me. Further
than that I can tell you nothing. I
must go now and. in prayer and medi-
tation, prepare myself for the inevita-
ble meeting."

Inspector Des Moines left the home .
of The Master, his head in a whirl. Al-
though his years of experience in grap-
pling with criminality in all of its sick-
ening forms had made him a man far
beyond the ordinary in point of intel-
lect, his brain was too well acquainted
with the wonder-worker he had just
left to doubt his veracity.

He had seen the terrible power of
Lessman in the case of the unfortunate
Ryan. The other officers who had battled
against the unseen force were unable to
add any information to what he already
knew. They could only say that, for the
instant, a will more powerful than their

own had held them in check. What it
was, they could not explain. Nor could
they describe their sensations. Ponder-
ing over the matter as he whirled city-
wards the inspector could only shake his
head. He was face to face with the
greatest mystery he had ever tackled —
a mystery so big that only The Master
himself could fathom it.

As he came to a cross street, he sud-
denly changed his mind and directed the
chauffeur to drive to the Winters home.
He would again study the millionaire at
close range. He was unable to reconcile
himself to the belief that the slow-witted,
hysterical man of money was the enor-
mous intellect described by Mohammed
Gunga. Yet, everything fitted in to
make a case against Winters — only to
tumble to pieces at the next turn.

There was the telephone call. His men
had investigated. Not only was the
operator ready to swear that it had been
Winters who called from booth number
fourteen, but the cigar girl as well. The
man had stopped at the cigar stand for
an instant. He was well known to the
girl in charge, who had addressed him
by name, as had the clerk on duty at
the time. Yet, three minutes later, Win-
ters had answered the telephone at his
own home ten miles away. Clearly, a
man could not be in two places at the
same time. Nor was it within the power
of any human being, by any modern
means of transportation, to transport
himself that distance within the time
given.

Wilkins answered the inspector's ring.
His master was in the parlor sitting be-
side the body of his beloved wife. He
would announce the inspector.

A second later he returned and ush-
ered Des Moines into the big reception
Jiall. The inspector shook hands with
the millionaire. Then, his eyes on the
other's face, he plunged immediately into
the reason for his call.

"Mr. Winters," he said. "I believe that

106 The Man Who Would Not Die

I am on the right track at last. But I
need some information which only you
can give me. Will you do it ?"

There was no hesitancy on the part
of the man of wealth. "Ask me anything
you wish, inspector. I will answer your
question lo the best of my ability."

Dcs Moines bored on.

"Winters," he said, sharply, "who is
your heir?"

The millionaire started.

"Why, er — I don't understand what
you are getting at?" he exclaimed.

"Just this. If I am correct in my guess,
your life is in danger. In view of this
morning's happenings, I am at last firm-
ly convinced that Mrs. Winters' death
was nothing more or less than a cold-
blooded murder ! So, too, was the death
of the maid ! I will admit that several
times I have had my doubts. Now /
know!"

Winters started back, aghast. "Hor-
rible ! Horrible P* he cried. "It is hard
to believe — yet it must be true. But
who could have so hated my poor wife
as to take her life?"

The inspector continued relentlessly.
"With Mrs. Winters out of the way, it
is my belief that you will be the next to
go. We must protect you. Now who is
going to profit by all this deviltry ? Have
you made a will ?"

Winters put his hand to his head.
"Surely, it cannot be true. You cannot
believe that they — mere children — "

"Who arc they, man?. Speak up!"

"My nephew, Thomas De Pew, and
my niece, Cora Dayton, his cousin.
Everything 1 have will go to them. Mrs.
Winters had no near relatives. My will
has been made for months. Of course,
had my wife lived, she would have in-
herited all."

"Do they live in the city?"

"They make their home with me.
They have lived here since childhood.
Both are orphans."

"I would like to talk with them, ques-

tion them, without their knowing the
reason. Will you kindly summon them ?
Tell them that I am merely seeking addi-
tional data for my report."

Winters, white-faced, arose. "I will
do as you wish, inspector," he said, slow-
ly. "But you are wrong in suspecting
those children. Thomas is but nineteen
years of age. His cousin is nearly a year
younger. Theirs cannot be the brains
that planned this horrible outrage."

He stepped into the adjoining room,
only to reappear, an instant later, with
the information that both of the young
people had driven downtown for the af-
ternoon.

Inspector Des Moines left the Winters
home feeling that he had made no ma-
terial progress.

The funeral services for the late Mrs.
Winters had been held and the body ten-
derly laid away in the family vault in
Rose Hill cemetery. At the same hour,
in another part of the city, amid more
humble surroundings, was held the
funeral of Dolly Matthews, the maid.

Alone in his office, Inspector Des
Moines sat scanning the afternoon pa-
pers. They were still filled with criti-
cisms of the police administration. Nor
did the inspector blame them greatly. For
he was obliged to confess himself beaten
— defeated at every turn of the road. He
had attended the funeral of Mrs. Win-
ters in person. Several of his best plain
clothes men had mingled with the crowd.
Others had been present at the funeral
of the maid. Their reports were one and
the same. There was nothing — absolute-
ly nothing — to report.

Over the telephone, he had given The
Master the results of his interview with
Winters. Mohammed Gunga had ad-
vised him to say nothing, do nothing, un-
til Lcssman again showed his hand.

Lost in reverie, he went over every

The Man Who Would Not Die

107

phase of the case. A stone wall con-
fronted him. There was nothing upon
which he could even hase a theory. Even
though he succeeded in pinning the
crimes on Winters, what jury would be-
lieve the incredible story? There was
not even a motive. He would be laughed
out of court. Mohammed Gunga was
his only hope.

The telephone tinkled jarringly, start-
ling him oat of his day dreams. The
voicewhich answered his gruff "Hello !"
was that of a stranger, agitated, jerky.

"Inspector, this is Thomas De Pew,
Augustus Winters' nephew. For the
love of God, come out here quick ! Some-
thing awful lias happened.

"I don't know what it is. I can't ex-
plain. I only know that a stranger called
here shordy after we returned from the
funeral and inquired for my uncle. Wil-
kins, the butler, heard him request a pri-
vate interview. Uncle Gus took him into
his study and closed the door. We sup-
posed that he had departed, for, later,
my uncle left the house for a short stroll
— or, at least, we so imagined.

"A few minutes ago Wilkins entered
the study. He found the body of the
stranger lying on the floor — stone dead !
No, there is not a mark of violence on
him. The physician — Doctor Bennett — -
has just completed his examination.
"And my uncle has not yet returned."

XII

Over die telephone, Des Moines re-
ported the latest angle of the case to Mo-
hammed Gunga. Then he drove to the
latter's residence and picked him up on
his way to the Winters home.

The white-faced butler admitted them,
trembling like a leaf as he ushered them
into the presence of young De Pew, a
slender youth trying hard to appear
manly in spite of his agitation. A mo-
ment later they were joined by Miss
Dayton, the niece, a beautiful girl whose

eyes were swollen and red from weep-
ing, although she seemed to hold herself
under better control than did the boy.
The inspector briefly introduced The
Master as one of his men versed in
subtle poisons, brought along for the
purpose of detecting if any such had
been used in making away with the
stranger found in the study.

A hasty examination of the dead man
proved the correctness of young De
Pew's report. He was a rough appear-
ing individual, evidently a laborer, far
from the sort of person a man of Win-
ters' refinement and wealth vwould be
likely to be on intimate terms with.

Mohammed Gunga arose from the
stooping position over the dead man and
turned to De Pew.

"Darius Lessman," he said, in the con-
versational tone of one polished gentle-
man addressing another, "the time for
unmasking is at hand! We meet at
last ! It is your soul or mine ! Prepare
yourself for the ordeal ! Summon, if you
are able, the powers of darkness. I warn
you that behind me lies all of the great
strength of the Holy Ones — and only
you know what that means. Are you
ready for the trial?"

For an instant there was silence.
Then, with a wild shriek, the girl ran
screaming from the room. Des Moines
stepped back a pace, startled by the sud-
den accusation. Yet he knew the Master
too well to doubt the correctness of his
charges.

De Pew's eyes glared angrily. He
seemed about to leap at the throat of his
accuser. Then, with a shrug of his thin
shoulders, he chuckled — a throaty, dia-
bolical, gleeful burst of mirth.

"As you. wish, my dear Mohammed
Gunga! As you wish. I will warn you,
as you have warned me. I intend to kill
you, damn you! Yes, and the infernal
meddler with you, too. I'll kill you as I
killed the others."

He rubbed his hands together glee-

108

The Man Who Would Not Die

fully, giving way again to his unholy
mirth. "Yes, and. by God, I'll use your
carcasses as I used this piece of carrion
on the floor, there. Think you that you
can stop me — that you, in your little-
ness, can end a career such as mine? I
am Lessman, The Man Who Can Not
Die! I'll be chief of police for a day!
Ha ! Ha ! Yes, and I'll wear the robes of
The Master.

"Listen, fools. Meta, the woman I
love, is she who has just left the room.
Together, we killed Mrs. Winters —
blasted her as we will blast you. Yes,
I'll blast you, curse you! I can throw
my will across the continent. Think
you, then, that you can defeat me? I
got Des Moines here to end him, know-
ing that he would bring you along.
With you gone, the world is mine !

"In the body of Mrs. Winters, Meta
left this house. She came here in the
body of Dolly, Ha! Ha! It was a
puzzle for the fools of policemen, try-
ing to figure out how the body of the
maid got into the coffin of the mistress.
I love puzzles. I worked it all out to
attract your attention — as I knew it
eventually would — my dear Moham-
med Gunga. You were getting too
close to my tracks — you and your hell-
ish gang ! With you gone, none will be
left on this side of the water who can
hope to match their strength with mine.

"My only regret is that I didn't blast
that damned salesman, Johnson, who
blocked our game when we stole the
brooch. I was the chauffeur, as you
have already guessed. I grew tender-
hearted — fool that I am. When he
seized Meta, he forced her to quit the
body she was occupying and enter that
of the dead woman we had., in the ma-
chine, ready for just such an emer-
gency. I'll get him yet, though, damn
him!

"I killed Winters, inspector, the same
night that I telephoned to you. Ha,
it was funny. I left his body hid-

den in a room I keep downtown for
just such purposes. Then I threw my
soul across the space and into the body
I now occupy in time to answer your
telephone call. I knew that you would
trace the call and seek to trap me. I
wanted to puzzle you. It has been a
real pleasure for me to play with you.
For I give you credit for having more
intelligence than the average detective.
I knew that sooner or later, though,
you would get beyond your depth and
call for aid from Mohammed Gunga.

"Where is Winters' body hidden
now? That's my business, fools! It's
hidden away where I can use it again
if the occasion ever demands — after
Meta and I get through using the Win-
ters millions, possibly. Your police-
man? O, yes, I killed him — blasted
him from the automobile while I was
talking to you. I kept my promise, did
I not?

"And now, both of you, prepare to
die! I, Lessman, the Man Who Will
Not Die, will it!"

XIII

Des Moines felt an icy sensation
creep over him. Then came a peculiar
numbness. He struggled against it.
Clammy fingers seemed to clutch his
throat! He was choking! He stag-
gered like a drunken man, seeking an
avenue of escape. A veil of darkness
seemed to weigh upon his eyes. Tighter
and tighter grew the bands about him.
And, then, screaming like an hysterical
woman, he fell to the floor, uncon-
scious.

How long he lay there he never
knew. Probably only a few seconds.
He awakened suddenly. For an instant
he imagined himself dead. He opened
his eyes. Over him stood the Master,
calm, self-reliant, facing the monster.
Silently the two men, only a few yards
apart, waged the greatest battle the

From his body emanated a thin vapor — an aura. It spread across the room tike a

nauseous miasma. — Page 110

109

110

The Man Who Would Not Die

world will ever know — the battle of
wills — a duel between the Powers of
Darkness and the forces of Good.

Slowly — slowly — slowly, Lcssman
seemed to weaken. Great drops of
sweat stood out on his forehead. His
breath came in asthmatic pants. He
struggled to save himself, to concen-
trate his powerful will for a final ef-
fort, but in vain. Opposed to him was
a will greater than his own — the united
will of the thousands who had devoted
their lives to the work of uplifting man-
kind — the will of the holy men of
India.

His legs trembled. His fingers
twitched jerkily. Then, as he sank to
the floor, he made a final effort to es-
cape. From his body emanated a thin
vapor — an aura. It was his soul at-
tempting flight. It spread across the
room like a nauseous miasma, smoke-
like, cloudy, repellent — hellish !

In response to The Master's will, it
drew itself together. Slowly — oh, so

slowly — as if fighting to the very last,
it drew nearer and nearer to the man
to whose mind it acknowledged the

mastery.

At last, it was but a tiny, smoky,
grey ball of vapor. The Master held
forth his hand and it hovered over his
palm. He pressed his fingers together.
When he opened them a tiny particle
of grayish power lay within his hand

Through the house rang the blood-
curdling shriek of a woman — a single,
despairing wail of anguish! Then,
through the door floated another
wraith. For a second it hesitated.
Then it mingled with the ashes of it9
lover in the Master's hand.

Mohammed Gunga blew upon his
palm. The powder vanished into noth-
ingness.

He extended his hand to Des Moines
and assisted him to his feet.

"That is the end ! Only you and I
know the truth. Let us depart. The
Monster is dead I"

The Yellow Dog

By Eric /

THE moment for which Hankin-
son had made such anxious and
careful preparation during three
weary weeks of watching and
waiting had come at last. There, with-
in a yard of him, was the old jeweler
whom he meant to stun and to rob;
there, in Hankinson's hand, was the
sandbag with which he intended to strike
him down. And all about the two men,
the one unsuspecting, the other quiver-
ing with intent, hung the heavy silence
of midnight, broken only by the metal-
lic tinkle of the valuables which the old
man was slowly transferring from
counter to safe.

Hankinson, thief and criminal from
his youth upward, had at that time been
out of prison for precisely a month. He
had no particular desire to return to
prison, but, on the other hand, he had
no leanings toward the path of recti-
tude.

Upon emerging from durance he had
possessed himself of a small stock of
money, which he had safely hidden in
view of emergencies ; when it was in his
pocket he had left his usual haunts in
North London and betaken himself to
new ones in the purlieus of the Mile End
Road. He took a cheap lodging there,
and began to look around him in White-
chapel and its neighborhood. And in
time he saw what he considered to be a
good chance.

Lurking about in the busy streets,
always with alert eyes, he saw at last a
prospect of replenishing the gradually
emptying purse. Thereafter he gave all

. Darling

his thought and attention to that pros-
pect. The prospect quickly became a
scheme.

There was an old-fashioned, dingy
jeweler's shop in a small side street off
Houndsditch ; it was also a pawn-brok-
ing establishment. Three gilded balls
overhung a passage entrance at the side.
In that passage there was a sort of
sentry-box in which the shutters of the
front window were kept. A curly-
headed, hooked-nose boy put up those
shutters every night before going home.
He was utterly indifferent to the shut-
ters, that boy, when he had once put
them up ; but when he had gone away,
whistling, Hankinson, under cover of
the dusk, took a mighty interest in them.
For long years of trained observation
had made Hankinson's eyes unusually
sharp, and it had not taken him more
than one glance to see that in one of
those shutters there was a noticeable,
an appreciable crack. You could see the
light in the shop through it. Therefore,
through it you could see into the shop.

Hankinson contrived to see into the
shop through that slit a good many
times. It was always at night that he
made these observations, and he made
them with delicacy and with speed. But
within a week he learnt a good deal.

Much of what he learnt was obvious
in other ways — namely, that the shop
was closed on Saturdays all day long;
that from Monday to Thursday it was
closed at nine o'clock in the evening;
that on Friday nights it was kept open
until eleven. But his observations
through the crack in the shutter in-
formed him that every night after clos-

• 111

112

The Yellow Dog

ing hours, whether at nine o'clock or at
eleven, Isidore Marcovitch, the old pro-
prietor, a gray-haired, stooping-figured
Hebrew, busied himself, alone, unaided,
in transferring his most valuable wares
from his window and counter to a large
safe which stood in the rear of the shop.
And, dingy and old-fashioned as the
shop was, there were valuables in it
which made Hankinson covetous.

Hankinson made his preparations
carefully.

First of all, he convinced himself that
this hiding away of goods was a nightly
performance;

Secondly, he made sure that the old
man was always alone when the per-
formance was gone through.

Thirdly, he came to know that the
only other occupant of the house was a
girl — quite a young girl, presumably
Marcovitch's granddaughter — who ap-
peared to live in the upper regions.

Hankinson formed the opinion — on
good grounds — that this young woman
retired to bed long before closing hours
on Friday nights ; at any rate, there was
a window in the very upper room in
which a light shone for a while every
night at half-past nine. He grew to be
positively certain that, beyond this girl,
there was nobody on the premises save
Marcovitch himself, and that Marcovitch
was the only waking thing in the house
when he put his goods in the safe on
Friday evenings. Obviously, then,
Friday was the day of excellent choice.

But Hankinson did not content him-
self with outside observation only. He
felt it necessary to see the inside of that
shop at close quarters. Therefore he
invented a good excuse for visiting it
twice — by taking something to mend
and calling for the mended article a
few days later. On these occasions he
inspected this new hunting ground with
due care.

After the second inspection he told
himself that it was all right. The big

safe in which old Marcovitch stowed his
best things stood detached from the
wall ; between the wall and it there was
a space in which a man could easily be-
stow himself unnoticed. The only dif-
ficulty was to secure an unobserved en-
trance to the shop. For long, vigilant
observation had shown Hankinson that
when Marcovitch was not behind his
counter the curly-headed boy invariably
was.

Hankinson watched for his oppor-
tunity on two successive Friday eve-
nings. At ten minutes to eleven on the
second opportunity came. For some
reason or other the old jeweler sent the
lad out of the shop. A moment later
he himself quitted the counter, and dis-
appeared into the rear premises. And
thereupon Hankinson slipped in, and an
instant later had hidden himself between
the safe and the wall. •

There were old coats and cloaks,
dusty and -musty, hanging there, and
they made good cover. If Marcovitch,
when he came back, had narrowly in-
spected these ancient garments he might
have found Hankinson's nose protrud-
ing at one place and his feet at another.
But Marcovitch suspected nothing, and
Hankinson was well skilled in holding
his breath.

The usual routine of the establish-
ment went on placidly. The curly-
headed boy presently put up the shut-
ters and went away, pocketing his
wages. Marcovitch locked, chained and
bolted his door. He disappeared into
the pawn-broking part of his shop. Han-
kinson heard more bolting and barring.

Then, from some inner part of the
premises, he heard the sound of a with-
drawn cork, and a little gurgling and
splashing. The old man, said Hankin-
son to himself, was about to refresh
himself with a drink.

Then came the scent of a strong,
pungent cigar, and presently Marcovitch
returned into view, a cigar in one cor-

The Yellow Dog

113

ner of his bearded lips, a steaming tum-
bler in his hand. An odor of rum,
strong, insidious, penetrated to Hankin-
son and overcame the musty smell of the
old garments. Because of his previous
vigils, Hankinson was well acquainted
with the accustomed routine.

Old Marcovitch began by unlocking
the safe. Then he took out certain
goods from the locked showcases on his
counter. Better things came from a
sort of wired-in enclosure which filled
the center of the window — an enclosure
of stout wire, closely meshed and
clamped. There were trays in that which
contained rings and necklaces and orna-
ments set with diamonds and pearls.
Some of these things were ticketed,
some were not.

But Hankinson, having often glued
his nose to the thick plate-glass window,
had a good idea that he could easily stow
away a few hundreds of pounds' worth
of stuff out of those trays in one of his
pockets. Good stuff, he said to himself,
lies in little room.

It was Hankinson's notion to hit Mar-
covitch when the trays from the window
and the counter-cases had been laid on
the counter previous to transferring
them to the safe.

He had everything ready for the at-
tack : the sandbag was already grasped
in his right hand ; in a left-hand pocket
he had a gag all ready to insert in the
old man's jaws; in another pocket a
length of cord wherewith to secure Mar-
covitch's wrists. And the moment was
drawing near, was almost there, when
Marcovitch turned from his trays to the
safe, took out of a drawer a small
packet done up in brown paper with a
tissue-paper lining, and, with a low
chuckle of delight, shook out on the
counter a quantity of loose diamonds.

Hankinson grew hot and cold and
hot again as the light fell on those
sparkling stones.

Here, indeed, was luck! Such luck
B. M. — Sept. — 8

as he had never expected. He was not
versed in the lore of precious stones, but
he knew diamonds from paste, and he
had no doubt that these sparkling things
were genuine products of the South
African diamond fields.

And there was pretty nearly a handful
of them. They must be good, for 'noth-
ing but the thought of their extreme
goodness would account for the self-
satisfied way in which the old Jew
chuckled as he bent over them, turning
their shining facets over with his claw-
like finger. And — now was the time.

Hankinson glided out of his cover
and brought the sandbag crashing down
on Marcovitch's bald head.

Marcovitch instinctively, spasmodi-
cally threw up his hands. He emitted
one groan, reeled and was falling over
on his side when Hankinson caught him.
It was not part of Hankinson's game
that Marcovitch should fall heavily on
the floor. He let the old man slide
gently down. In two minutes he had
securely gagged him. In two more min-
utes he had drawn his hands behind his
back and fastened his wrists together.

And it was as he rose from the ac-
complishment of these things that he
suddenly heard a strange sound — the
sound of something alive, drawing in its
breath in a queer, sniffling, snuffling
fashion, somewhere close at hand.

Instantly Hankinson recognized that
sound. It was the sound made by an
imprisoned animal which snuffs at the
crack of its prison door.

"Lummel" whispered Hankinson to
himself. "A blinkin' dawg!"

He lost no time after that, and as he
transferred the most valuable things to
his pockets — diamonds here, gold there
— he wondered how it was that he had
never seen any dog about Marcovitch's
premises.

Presently the sniffling sound died
away; all became quiet again. And,
without as much as a glance at the fallen

114

The Yellow Dog

man, Hankinson made round the coun-
ter to the door. In his opinion the man
who has done his work effectually
should go away as soon as his job is
done. But going, he took care to turn
out the gas.

Hankinson had manipulated the key,
the chain and the bar, and was about to
open the door in gingerly fashion when
he heard a sound at the rear of the
shop. He turned, muttering a curse. A
door had noiselessly opened, and there,
holding a lamp above her head, stood
Marcovitch's granddaughter. She was
in her nightgown, her hair — long, black,
lustrous — fell far below her waist ; her
great eyes, dilated with alarm, shone like
stars. And at her side, nuzzling
against her knees, was the strangest,
ugliest-looking beast of a dog that Han-
kinson had ever set eyes on.

It was queerly shaped, it was of no
known breed, it was a vile yellow in
color, and it had only one eye. It was
borne in upon Hankinson, amidst the
rush of thoughts which this new situa-
tion forced on his consciousness, that he
would have bad dreams about that dog,
and he cursed it without knowing that
he was even thinking of it.

There were other things to think of
just then. Hankinson realized his dan-
ger. He made a sudden dash back at
the girl. The girl set up a loud scream,
dashed the lamp in his fa«e, drew back
with the agility of a snake, and locked
the door behind her.

Hankinson went too, then. He groped
his way to the street door and let him-
self out. As he crossed the threshold
he had an unpleasant feeling of a sinu-
ous, wiry body that cannoned against
his legs, and he kicked out at it in sheer
frenzy of hatred. But when he reached
the pavement and looked round him
there was no dog there. And, with an-
other oath, he made off.

There was nobody about just at that
point, but there were people twenty

yards away on either hand, and Hankin-
son's chief desire was to mingle with
and get beyond them. He turned to the
right and sped swiftly away, and just
then the Jewess darted out into the
street from the side entrance and let out
a yell that startled every midnight
stroller within the eighth of a mile.
"Murder!"

Hankinson shot into the nearest entry.
It was light where he entered it; it was
black where he traversed it ; it was light
again where he left it. And, flinging a
glance over his shoulder as he turned
at the end of it, he saw figures
dart after him; also he heard a queer
padding sound not so far away from his
heels.

He knew then that here was a
serious business, and he set his teeth
and ran. There was a network of al-
leys and courts and queer places there-
abouts.

Hankinson dodjjed from one to the
other as a xabbit dodges about in its
warren when the ferrets are after it.
But wherever he went he heard the
queer padding sound, and he cursed
that one-eyed yellow dog to the depths
of a dog's hell.

And yet once, twice, thrice, he
looked round — at least once with his re-
volver in his hand — and never saw any
dog at all, not even when there were
patches of light which the pursuit, brute
or human, must cross.

Eventually Hankinson, spent of
breath, made two or three desperate
twistings and twinings and darted into a
dark court. The next minute something
seemed to catch him by the ankle. He
made a violent plunge forward, dashed
his head against a wall, saw thousands
of stars flash and coruscate before his
eyes, and felt a great buzzing and hum-
ming rise up somewhere behind his ears.
And immediately after that Hankinson,
for the time being, felt and saw noth-
ing more

The Yellow Dog

!15

When Hankinson came back to con-
sciousness he gradually realized that he
was in surroundings of an undeniably
strange sort. Save for a dull aching in
his head, occasionally varied by a sharp
stab of pain, he was not uncomfortable.
He was lying on something very soft
and warm ; his head was properly pil-
lowed ; he felt that some hand had care-
fully tucked a covering around his
limbs.

He judged from these things that he
was not, at any rate, in the detention
cells of a police station ; experience had
taught him that in these places small
consideration was shown to visitors. But
it was no use opening his eyes, for he
was in a queer sort of darkness — not an
absolutely black darkness, but a sort of
deep, misty blue darkness, in the midst
of which, high above him, was a faint
spot of ruby-colored light. He could
make that out, and he could tell that the
darkness was blue and not black ; more
than that it was impossible to say.

But if Hankinson's eyes could do lit-
tle, his nose was able to do more.

His nostrils began to expand and to
titillate under unfamiliar odors. There
was a queer, clinging, permeating scent
all around and about ; a scent of saffron
and musk and sandalwood; it was
heavy, thick, almost oppressive; it made
him cough.

There had been an unearthly silence
about that place until then. Hankin-
son's cough sounded like the report of
a revolver let off in a vault. And when
it died away and silence fell once more
Hankinson heard the sniffling and snuf-
fling of a dog somewhere close by. Then
he remembered everything, and a cold
sweat broke out all over him. And at
that instant a flood of light was turned
on, silently, and Hankinson, blinking
upward, saw standing at his side a gi-
gantic Chinaman clad in the costume of

his own country, who looked down
upon him with an expression which
would have sat well on the face of a
sphinx.

This extraordinary vision so fright-
ened Hankinson that he immediately
closed his eyes and shut it out.

Then he felt a cool hand laid on his
forehead and heard a voice speaking in
perfect English and soft, mellifluous
tones.

"How do you feel now?" asked the
voice.

Hankinson made so bold as to open
his eyes again. He took another, a
longer, look at the Chinaman.

The Oriental wore spectacles, and it
was impossible to see his eyes clearly,
but his tones were propitiating, and
Hankinson's spirits revived.

"Bloomin' queer," he answered. He
tried to move and, for some reason,
found movement difficult. " 'Ow," he
continued, " 'ow did I come 'ere, guv'-
nor?"

"I carried you into my house," said
the Chinaman quietly. "I was taking
the air at my door when you darted past
me, followed by a dog. The dog sud-
denly caught you by the ankle and you
stumbled and fell and dashed your head
against the wall. That," he added, lay-
ing a delicate fingertip on a lump of
wet lint which decorated Hankinson's
right temple, "that is where your head
came into contact with something
harder. It is well for you, my friend,
that your frontal bones are of more than
usual strength."

Hankinson stared.

Then he referred to the only part of
the speech which seemed to him to be
really pertinent.

"That there dawg, now?" he asked
anxiously. "Wot about 'im, guv'nor?"

The Chinaman pointed to a door at
the foot of the couch on which Hankin-
son was lying.

"The dog," he replied, "is safely be-

116

The Yellow Dog

stowed in there. He followed us in —
and I took good care that he should not
go out. He appears to be an animal of
undoubted sagacity."

Hankinson moved again, and again
found that movement was difficult, if
not impossible.

"I'm obliged to yer, guv'nor." he said.
"1 — I'll be movin' now, if you ain't got
no objections?"

The Chinaman shook his head
gravely.

"Not yet," he said. "It will not be
well for you to move just yet. Let me
advise you to rest quietly where you
are."

"An* why?" demanded Hankinson
suspiciously. "There ain't nothink seri-
ous, is there, guv'nor? A crack on the
'e'd, now — that ain't nothink. I got
business, yer see, an' — "

"And there are those who have busi-
ness with you," remarked the Chinaman.
"The police."

Hankinson felt cold again, but he
managed to look surprised.

"Perlice!" he exclaimed. "Wot about
the perlice, then? I aint — "

The Chinaman stretched out an arm
and pulled a small, wheeled table from
behind Hankinson's head. He silently
directed Hankinson's eyes to it.

" 'Eavens !" muttered Hankinson.

The surface of the table was covered
with an array of objects pleasing enough
in themselves, but not welcome to Han-
kinson under present circumstances.
These objects were laid out in order,
neatly and systematically.

There was a row of gold watches,
there was another row of gold chains —
good and solid. There were pendants,
ornaments, bracelets — all of gold, for
Hankinson had scorned anything of less
value. And there were precious stones
— some fine pearls, some excellent
rubies — and in the center of everything,
on a rag of blue velvet, lay the dia-
monds over which the old jeweler had

chuckled. Also, in one corner of the
table lay Hankinson's* revolver.

Hankinson felt very sick as he
looked at these things. Yet — it was
about what he had expected. And all
he could do was to glare resentfully at
the bland features of the spectacled face.

The Chinaman, however, remained
unmoved.

"That," he said, again indicating the
table, "will explain much. If you wish
for further explanation — Mr. Marco-
vitch is dead."

Hankinson jumped — as much as that
curious inertia would permit.

"G'arn !" he said in a low voice. " Yer
don't mean it! It can't be, guv'nor.
W'y I on'y— "

"He was quite dead when the police
entered his shop," said the Chinaman.
"You hit him too hard. And perhaps
you are not very experienced in the use
of the gag. However, he is dead, and
the police are in pursuit of you."

Hankinson began to whimper.

"Yer*ve trapped me!" he whined.
"Yer meanin' to 'and me over! Yer'd
a deal better 'ave let me lie where I was.
An' yer*ve done somethink to me. an' all
— I can't move."

"That," replied the Chinaman, "is the
effect of a medicine with which I have
treated you. Rest awhile and the effect
will pass off. I am not going to hand
you over to the police. You are quite
safe — quite safe, I repeat — so long as
you do what I tell you."

Hankinson stared. He was suspicious
as ever, but there was a calm, confident
assurance about the Chinaman which
went far to allay suspicion. And sud-
denly his eyes brightened and his voice
lost its whine and became almost cheery.

"You see me right, guv'nor. an' I'll
make it all right wiv you," he said in-
sinuatingly. " 'Struth, I 'adn't no in-
tentions o' finishin' the old man! An'
wotever you likes out o' that little lot,
it's yours."

The Yellow Dog

117

The Chinaman pushed the tahle out
of sight again.

"We can discuss that matter later
on," he said. "At present you must take
some food, and after that you must sleep
until evening, and then we will see about
getting you away."

Hankinson's small eyes looked a sharp
inquiry.

"Strite?" he asked. "No fetchin' the
perlice in while I'm — here?"

"You can trust me," answered the
Chinaman. "It would not suit me to
have police in my house. I have my
own affairs."

That reassured Hankinson. He set
down his host as being one of his own
kidney. And presently he ate the soup
— good, rich soup with strength in it —
which the Chinaman brought him, and
after that he went to sleep quite
calmly. . . .

Ill

When Hankinson woke again there
were two Chinamen in the room with
him. One was the big man of the pre-
vious interview; the other, also garbed
in Chinese dress, was a younger man of
about his own size and weight — an
almond-eyed, stolid-faced fellow who
was regarding Hankinson with an in-
scrutable expression on his immobile
features. The big man was talking to
the small one in gibberish which Han-
kinson did not understand. Catching
sight of Hankinson's opening eyes, he
broke off the conversation.

"You are quite better now," he said,
not questioningly, but in positive as-
sertion. "You — now you may get
up. There is food and drink ready
for you in the next room. Come this
way."

Hankinson got up and stretched him-
self. Certainly he was all right then —
not a trace of injury remained in him.
And with this realization of recovery a

desire for action came upon him. He
wanted to be out of that. Instinctively
he looked round for the little table on
which his loot had been laid out. But
the little table was not there.

"In the next room," said the big Chi-
naman with a grin. "Come."

Hankinson followed the two men into
a plainly furnished apartment, which
evidently did duty as living-room and
kitchen. There was a table set out in
English fashion.

Hankinson was motioned to seat him-
self. The smaller Chinaman sat down
in a corner and stared at him; the big
one served him with hot roast fowl.

Never had Hankinson eaten such ten-
der food in his life. And he gave him
bottled stout to drink. It seemed to
Hankinson that he had never tasted such
nectar. He stuffed himself, he guzzled
freely, wondering all the time what it all
meant. And when at last he could eat
and drink no longer, he shoved away his
plate and looked his host full in the face
with half-impudent inquiry. For Han-
kinson was very sure that the big China-
man was not playing the Good Samari-
tan for nothing ; he would want his fee,
like everybody else.

"An' now what, guv'nor?" asked
Hankinson familiarly. "If it's all the
same to you, yer know, I should like to
'op it. I dessay it's all right, but this
'ere neighborhood ain't what you'd call
healthy, is it, now?"

The big Chinaman, who had taken a
seat by his compatriot during the final
stages of Hankinson's repast, produced
an evening newspaper and laid it before
the guest.

His long, tapering fingers indicated
bold headlines and other uncomfortable
things about midnight murder and bur-
glary. Hankinson's pale cheeks grew
paler as he read.

"Yer said as 'ow yer could get me
away?" he muttered at last. "An' I
said as 'ow yer was welcome to what

118

The Yellow Dog

yer liked to take out o' what I got — eh?
How's it to be, guv'nor?"

"I can get you away," answered the
Chinaman. "But — it will have to be out
of England."

"Out of— England I" exclaimed Han-
kinson. "'Struth! W'y, I ain't never
been out of England. I don't know no
lingo but English. Where would it be
now, guv'nor? Not — not to where you
come from, would it? 'Cause I under-
stand that's a longish way off."

The big Chinaman leaned forward as
if to attract strict attention.

"Now listen," he said. "There is a
Chinese ship in the river, lying off Wap-
ping, which sails tonight for Amster-
dam. Her captain will take you, on
my recommendation, to Amsterdam.
And in Amsterdam you can sell your
— diamonds. When you have sold your
diamonds you can take ship to
America — or wherever you please to
go."

Hankinson silently ran over his in-
ventory of the stolen goods.

"Diamonds, eh?" he said musingly.
"There ate other things than diamonds,
yer know."

"I have estimated the value of what
was on you," said the Chinaman gravely.
"The diamonds are worth about two
thousand pounds. You will get one-third
of their value in Amsterdam. The other
things are worth about four or five hun-
dred pounds. You can leave those with
me — my share."

"Done !" exclaimed Hankinson. "But,
how am I to get down to that there
ship?" he asked anxiously. "Seems ter
me as 'ow there'll be a pretty sharp
look-out for me, guv'nor, an' no error I
How's it to be done?"

The big Chinaman motioned to the
smaller one.

"This gentleman," he said, "will lend
you 'some garments. You will go down
dressed as a Chinaman, after dark. I
will prepare you — make you up with a

little paint and other matters. And we
will begin now — time presses."

Hankinson cheerfully submitted to
the proposed transformation. He
stripped to his underclothing. He put
on Chinese trousers and soft-soled Chi-
nese boots; he was fitted with upper
garments which amused him by their
strangeness and comforted him with
their silky feeling. And then he sat
down, and the big Chinaman produced a
box of colored pigments and delicate
brushes, and set to work on Hankin-
son's head and face. He worked with
the zest of a true artist, and the other
Chinaman stood by and admired with-
out moving a muscle of his features.

At the end of half an hour Hankin-
son was bidden to look in a mirror, and
he stood up and looked and stared. It
did not amaze him that he did not know
himself; what astonished him was that
the craftsman's cunning had trans-
formed him into the double of the other
Chinaman 1 The big man, with a sly
smile, had twisted his compatriot round
so that he stood side by side with Han-
kinson, facing the mirror — and Hankin-
son gasped as he gazed at the two yel-
low faces.

"Gawd!" he said. "Why— it's 'imt"

The big Chinaman allowed himself to
laugh. He put a few finishing touches
to his work, adjusted the cap and false
pigtail, finally produced a truly Chinese
umbrella. And then, in short, plain
fashion, he gave Hankinson his instruc-
tions. He was to make his way to a
certain wharf in the neighborhood of
London Docks 5 there he would be met
by a boat's crew and taken on board the
Chinese vessel. In his progress through
the streets he was to preserve a sober,
grave demeanor — above everything, he
was not to hold converse with anyone,
especially a policeman; if anybody ac-
costed him, he was to smile blandly and
shake his head.

"Right, guv'nor!" said Hankinson.

The Yellow Dog

119

"I'm on — mum's the word. Now them
shiners ?"

The big man produced a small bag,
open at the mouth. Within it Hankin-
son saw gleams of sparkling fire. He
made haste to stow it away in the pocket
wherein he had already put his money.
Then he gave the big man a firm look.

"There's another thing," he said. "I'm
goin' into strange parts and amongst
strange folks. And I ain't a-goin' wivout
my revolver. Hand it over, guv'nor.
As it was, mind."

The Chinaman produced the revolver,
showed Hankinson that it was fully
loaded, and calmly dropped it into his
own pocket.

"I will hand that to you in the street,"
he said. "I am going to walk a little
way with you. Now let us go."

And he led Hankinson out of the
house into- the night. As they passed
out the younger Chinaman hastened to
a window which commanded the way by
which they went. He saw them pass in
and out of the lights of the lamps — and
suddenly he saw a couple of vague,
shadowy figures emerge from a dark
place and steal after them. In his eag-
erness and excitement to see that part of
the proceedings, he threw up the sash
of the window and leaned out. And in
that instant the yellow dog, which had
been tied up in that room, completed its
day's task of eating through the stout
cord that had prisoned it. The young
Chinaman, leaning through the window,
was conscious for a second of a sinuous
body hurling itself past him. Before he
had time to comprehend matters he saw
that body vanishing round the corner.
He shut the window then and retired to
resume his usual sphinx-like demeanor.

Presently the big man came back and
grinned at his compatriot.

"They are after him," he said briefly.

"I saw them," replied the other.

The big man grinned again.

"It is fortunate that this fellow fell

at my door," he said. "He has served
us well. Certainly he will never fall
there again. We benefit very well. We
have what he brought in — and he has
some worthless bits of paste. It is
good!"

The younger man made no answer to
this. Nor did he mention that the dog
had escaped.

"It is time that I go now," he ob-
served. V

And without further remark he pro-
ceeded to divest himself of his Oriental
garments and to put on the inconspicu-
ous suit of grey tweed which Hankin-
son had recently taken off.

Ten minutes later a figure dressed in
Hankinson 's clothes, much muffled
about the neck and face, and having
Hankinson's cap pulled down over its
nose, slipped out of that quiet house and
went away by devious paths to other and
safer parts. No figure followed it; the
two figures that had lurked in waiting
for it since dark were following Hankin-
son.

And Hankinson went on, knowing
nothing. He was beginning to feel him-
self safe, and he did not care how much
people stared at him as he walked in
the glare of the gas. He had what he
believed to be diamonds in his pocket.
It had never even occurred to him that
the big Chinaman might or would sub-
stitute paste for the genuine article. He
had a prospect of selling them to advan-
tage. And he had his revolver. There-
fore, being a bit of an actor, he went on-
ward, always smiling blandly.

Hankinson knew the nearest way to
the wharf of which the big Chinaman
had spoken, and it took him little time
to get down there. All his thoughts
were of his own business, and he had
no idea that two yellow-faced, slit-eyed
fellows, clad in slop suits of blue serge,

120

The Yellow Dog

were dogging his every footstep. Nor
did he know that an ugly, uncanny-look-
ing, one-eyed mongrel was slinking
behind him, keeping close to walls and
to the fronts of shops, Jhat one eye
perpetually fixed on its object of
pursuit.

Hankinson never saw that dog until
he had walked on to the wharf — a de-
serted, desolate, cold expanse of timber,
on which there was no business doing at
that hour of the evening. There was a
pale gleam of yellow from the window
of a waterside inn at the other end of
the wharf ; a half-moon was far up in
the cloudy sky; here and there a faint
gas flame burned. In this poor light
Hankinson suddenly saw the yellow
dog's one eye — baleful, malevolent. It
turned him hot and cold, and he could
do nothing but stare at it.

He saw nothing of a boat putting off
from any vessel ; thereabouts, indeed,
nothing of any sort seemed to be doing.
There was, in fact, no sign of life on
the wharf but in his own and the dog's
presence. And the dog had sat down
now, and did nothing but watch him.
When the clouds cleared off the moon
Hankinson saw the dog's one eye — and
he cursed it under his breath in plain
Cockney English.

It was in the midst of these mutter-
ing curses that the two slinking figures
suddenly leapt out on Hankinson as he
passed the stack of timber. There was
a flashing of steel in the moonlight, and

two knives went swiftly in and out of
the soft silks in which Hankinson was
masquerading. He fell over on his back
as the knives were withdrawn, and con-
vulsively twisted up and on to his side.
He knew that blood was running from
him like the spurts from a suddenly
pricked wineskin, but his brain was clear
enough yet, and he mechanically
snatched at his revolver and fired, left
and right, at the two figures which were
drawing back from him. And as his
own eyes began to glaze he saw the two
figures sway and fall — fall in the unmis-
takable fashion.

"Lor'!" gasped Hankinson, as his
head dropped. "Got — 'em — both!"

Then Hankinson died, and the yellow
dog came near and looked at him.

When you find the bodies of three
dead men lying in the moonlight on a
Thames-side wharf, one of them an
Englishman dressed in Chinese garb,
two of them Chinese men attired in
reach-me-down slop suits, the English-
man stabbed, the Chinese shot, the Eng-
lishman with a collection of paste dia-
monds on him, the Chinese with next to
nothing, and all three watched by a
miserable, one-eyed yellow dog, you have>
all the elements of a first-class mystery.
There were two Orientals in different
places who could have solved that mys-
tery, but your true Oriental knows how
to keep a still tongue. And the yellow
clog, unfortunately, was unable to make
humans comprehend him.

Bulling the Bulls

By Walter Scott Story

YOUNG Ryan looked down the
Worcester platform through
the canyon formed by the mail
and express cars. Catching
the desired final signal, he passed the
word to his chief, Carruthers.

Carruthers unthrottled the giant
at his command ; and the long heavy
Boston express got under way, with
a deep and mighty puffing of the en-
gine, the dull grind of its reluctant
wheels, the clank of trucks and the
clink-clank of the couplings as each
preceding coach began to move and
communicated motion to the follow-
ing.

As the train gathered way rapidly
— fifteen minutes behind schedule on
its way to Boston — a tall man in a
dark blue suit emerged from some-
where among the clutter of trunks
and crates and bales and, running
alongside of the smoking car, grasped
the rail of the end of the car and
after a few paces swung himself
aboard, going swiftly up the steps
and entering the coach.

He passed up the car looking from
left to right. The car was exceeding-
ly crowded, some men sitting on the
arm rests of the seats, and even then
in the middle of the afternoon it was
almost dusky because of tobacco
smoke.

The tall man went up the car
slowly, but saw no vacant seat. There
were two or three groups of card
players, but, notwithstanding this,
all the seats seemed to be taken.

The traveler who had made the

train by the skin of his teeth, as the
saying is, passed the groups of
players and went on.

The fourth seat from the front of
the coach on the right-hand side was
occupied by but one person — a stout,
sleek, prosperous-looking man of
fifty or thereabouts, dressed in a neat
gray suit and wearing a mouse-
colored fedora. At this seat, the tall
man halted.

"Seat engaged?" he asked.

The other man looked up and
smiled slightly in good humor. He
had a merry, but very keen blue eye,
and his face had a healthy glow of
red and tan — the face of an outdoor
man or of a business man who is
faithful to his golf. He shook his
head and moved in a trifle farther
toward the window.

The tall man sat down and relaxed,
leaning his trim, broad shoulders
back against the seat. He was a fine-
looking man between thirty-five and
forty, with a hawk-like, yet boyish
face. After a covert scrutiny of his
seatmate from deep-set, keen dark
eyes, he drew down his felt hat
somewhat over his forehead and
seemed to compose himself for a nap.

While he sat in this position with
his eyes closed, the stout man looked
him over, studying his face and
clothes — apparently puzzled. The
tall, athletic man was neatly dressed,
but, somehow or other, he seemed to
give his clothes distinction and
seemed not to get from the clothes
the setting proper for such a trim,
handsome fellow.

The forward door of the coach

121

122

Bulling the Bulls

opened, and the conductor, spectacles
perched on the top of his nose, came
in, followed by an assistant.

When the door opened, Durkee,
the tall man, opened his eyes and
began leisurely to reach into his
pockets for ticket or money. From
the first pocket his hand came out
empty, and an odd expression came
across his face. He sat upright and
hastily, but without flurry, searched
for the necessary tender. Presently,
he gave a shrug of the shoulders and
sat back. He was a man of the world
— that was clear — but, notwithstand-
ing, he was mentally squirming as
the conductor, a grizzled-haired man
with a stiletto eye and a very short,
but polite tongue, collected from one
man and then another.

Durkee gave an inaudible breath
of embarrassment and vexation as
the official at length stood next to
him, actually touching him as he
leaned over to give a mere glance at
the stout man's punched slip tucked
in the hold in the seat ahead.

"Ticket, sir," said the conductor.

Durkee looked up, a slight smile
on his dark, handsome face.

"I came away in a hurry," he said,
"and I haven't a red cent on me as
far as I can find."

There was just a moment of si-
lence, and Durkee felt that embar-
rassment which any man, no matter
how practiced a traveler he may be,
feels when he is without funds and
left to the mercy of a man who daily
has to judge between humbugs and
innocents.

"We stop at Framingham, sir, I'm
sorry, but" —

"Beg pardon," interposed the stout
man, turning to Durkee with a smile.
"Where you going?"

"Boston?" answered Durkee.

"What's the tax, Doctor?" in-
quired the stout man, blandly.

The conductor named the price
and prepared a rebate slip and passed
it to the stout man when he had paid
Durkee's fare.

"I haven't even my watch on,"
said Durkee when the conductor had
passed on. "I'm very much obliged
to you."

"Don't mention it, my friend. I've
been in similar predicaments."

They conversed for a Irttle while
on general topics of the time — cau-
tious on the subject of politics — but
presently lapsed into silence and rode
on for ten or fifteen minutes without
speaking.

"Live in Boston?" asked Grant,
breaking the silence.

"No," returned Durkee. His tone
was not of rebuff, but he volunteered
no information about himself. "By
the way," he said, at length, "if
you'll give me your name and address,
I'll send you my fare."

Mr. Grant waved his hand and
uttered a little laugh.

"That's all right," he said.

"It's not all right," declared the
other, mildly emphatic. "There's no
reason why you should pay my fare."

Mr. Grant half turned and looked
his seatmate over with a marvelously
quick glance.

"If that's the way you feel about
it. Mister," he said slowly, "it may
be you can do a little bit of a favor
for me."

Durkee in his turn eyed his seat-
mate again in a furtive manner, his
deep-set, sharp eye missing nothing.
A little curve appeared at the cor-
ners of his mouth — but went quickly
away.

"The fact is, I'm in a mean little
fix," said Grant. "I suppose I can
rest in confidence upon your word of
secrecy if you don't care to help me?"

"Yes — if I pass my word," re-
sponded Durkee.

Bulling the Bulls

123

"And do you pass the word?"
asked the other, quickly.
"Yes."

"Well, this is the case. Maybe
you've heard of the Pelton bank rob-
bery a few days ago?"

"No," said Durkee. "Don't recall
hearing about it."

The stout man looked surprised,
seemed about to say something, then
apparently changed his line of
thought and speech.

"Well, there was one there, and
they say the robbers got away with
about — I think about twenty thou-
sand, or something like that. There
was a lot of talk about some of the
town police being mixed up in the
business, and some of the — er, officers
are in a peck of trouble over it."

"All news to me," asserted the tall
man, carelessly.

"The truth is, Mister, I'm one of
the officers there in Pelton, and
definite charges have been made
against me. In fact, confidentially, I
was to be arrested, and I'm on my
way to Boston to see some friends —
high-up fellows who can do things
See?"

"Yes."

"As I say, the fellows are out to
'get' me — it's a frame-up back there,
you see — and I got a feeling that I
may be pinched in the South Station.
Now, you can see — any man of good
sense knows how these things go —
that if I don't get to my friends first
I'll be in a pretty pickle. That'd be
a trump play- against me. I don't
want to be caught in Boston and side-
tracked and have it come out in the
Boston papers and copied at home."

"I don't blame you," commented
Durkee, looking at the other from
the corner of his eye, a thrill run-
ning through him.

"No, I don't think anybody can
blame me," said Grant — "anybody

who knows about politics. Now, the
idea that came to me was this — that
you and I put on a pair of handcuffs *
and give those fellows the slip in the
station, just as if you were taking
me down. Get the idea?"

"Yes, but »I don't carry such ar-
ticles with me — not as a ruleV' re-
sponded Durkee, with a grin.

"Well, / always do, of course. Do
you think you could help me. through
the crowd, taking the part of an of-
ficer conducting me to the authori-
ties?"

Durkee smiled, looking at the other
covertly with a queer light back in
his keen eyes.

"Suppose I can't bluff the thing
through, my friend, if you're right
and someone's waiting for you? —
what then?"

Grant turned and looked squarely
at him for an instant.

During that, instant all the humor
was absent from his blue eyes, in
its place a hard, very hard look?^

Then he laughed shortly, that odd
gleam disappearing.

"Why," he said, at length, "I'll re-
lease you and do the best I can."

"They might hold me under the
circumstances. Couldn't blame them
much. It's pretty risky. Mister, I
should say."

Grant looked out of the window
for a few moments and then turned
back to the other, failing to see the
look of satisfaction or triumph — or
whatever it was — that passed over
Durkee's face.

"I shall be glad to give you say.
fifty dollars, young man.* I mean, of
course, this in addition to your fare,"
he supplemented, jokingly.

"I don't see that it can do much
harm, anyway," remarked Durkee,
rather carelessly. "The only danger
is that they might make things un-
pleasant for me."

124

Bulling the Bulls

"Oh, I'll see that you don't get in
wrong, anyway."

"Well, then, I'll try to help you
out," promised Durkee. "Got 'em?"

After a careful glance about. Grant
produced a pair of handcuffs. He
clicked one hold on his left wrist, and
then Durkee, after a slight hesita-
tion, linked his thin, sinewy, long-
fingered hand to the other's.

In this fashion they rode the rest
of the way to Boston, avoiding the
subject which linked them together
and chatting casually on various
matters of interest to ordinary citi-
zens.

The express stopped at Hunting-
ton Station. A few people got
off, and a few got on. Two broad-
shouldered, keen-eyed men, obviously
together, came into the smoking-car
by way of the forward door and came
down looking from left to right.
They noted Grant and Durkee and
the bond that held them, and with-
out comment passed on, swiitly, but
in a very business-like way.

"No one I know," announced
Grant, as the two went on after the
first glance.

He spoke in a matter-of-fact way,
but Durkee perceived that he was
really much relieved.
. The train got under way after a
very short stop and sped on, finally
coming to journey's end under the
mammoth shed of South Station.

Durkee and Grant descended
promptly from the smoker and
went up to the shed with the
crowd. The tide of people con-
verged and narrowed as it ap-
proached the gate of the shed and,
passing through the entrance, spread
out into the open space and began
immediately to lose its entity among

the throng scurrying here and there
in every direction.

As Durkee and Grant passed
through the gateway and bore off to
the left, neither hurrying nor lag-
ging, a burly, ruddy-faced man in
dark clothes came from the fence —
noting them as soon as they issued
from the shed.

"Well, well— hello, Kelly," he said,
mockingly jovial, but with an under-
note of real and intense satisfaction,
and as he gave the greeting he
grasped Mr. Grant by the arm, ap-
parently ready for trouble, as if he
knew something about the peculiar
light that could shine in the other's
eyes.

At the same moment he noticed
Durkee and the bond between him
and the stout man he addressed as
Kelly. He lifted his eyebrows in
surprise and favored Durkee with a
steady and half-hostile look.

As this man accosted and touched
Grant, another big man of the same
cut approached from another direc-
tion and joined the trio, a little grin
coming to his face as he saw Grant.

"Hello, Kelly," said this new-
comer, speaking very much as the
other stranger had spoken. "At last.'"

"Hello, Moran," returned Mr.
Grant, with composure.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," put in
Durkee, promptly and courteously,
"but it's hands off for you. Noth-
ing doing at all. I got Kelly for the
First National break in Portland two
years ago. Lighted on him in
Worcester by accident. Sorry" — a
tantalizing slight grin came on his
hawk-like face — "but you can come
up and have him in just about twelve
years."

The first burly man drew back a
pace, scowling. Then he shrugged
his broad shoulders resignedly and
used strong language feelingly.

Bulling the Bulls

125

Kelly, for his part, shot a quick
glance at the man whose fare he had
paid, his blue eyes like rapier points ;
imt after that look he glanced at the
disappointed Boston men and
laughed at them.

"Tough luck, boys," said Durkee,
"but you can have him when we're
through. Come on, old bird."

He gave Kelly a slight tug, and,
Kelly grinning queerly, they walked
elbow to elbow through the throng
and out of the station.

Durkee secured a taxicab and, hav-
ing given his direction — North Sta-
tion — entered the designated • cab
with his captive.

When they were in the vehicle,
Durkee pulled the curtain on his
side half way down, Kelly following
suit at his request.

"Well, I'll be confounded!" ex-
claimed Kelly as they crossed the
tracks and went into Atlantic Ave-
nue. "You got a quick wit, my
friend."

He looked steadily at his com-
panion through half-closed lids.
Producing a key, he reached over to
insert it.

As his right hand came down, Dur-
kee's left hand, with long, sinewy fin-
gers, closed over it with a grip of
steel and suddenly twisted the key
from the other's possession.

Kelly, protruding his head belli-
cosely, glared at Durkee, his eyes
now green and glinting; and Durkee
met his glare with a dancing light in
his eyes.

"Come across now, Kelly," said
Durkee coolly, a grin coming to his
face.

"So you're the real thing, are you,"
exclaimed Kelly with a vicious
sneer — "a real bull, eh? Walked
right into you, didn't I? Funny, too,
'cause I had a feeling before we got
to Boston that there was something

off about you. Well, well." He
spoke evenly and smoothly now, and
settled back a little.

Durkee held his free hand to the
window and kept his eye upon the
other man.

"Don't you pull that gun, Kelly,"
he said, quietly, in a quick warning,
"or I'll drop the key and smash you.
And come across!"

"That's your game, eh?"

"That — or delivery in Portland. I
knew you were Kelly two minutes af-
ter we began to talk?"

"How much? — a hundred?"

Durkee laughed mirthlessly, and
dexterously 'released his right hand
from the cuff and slipped the key in
his pocket.

"All you got on you now," he an-
swered, sitting tense like a coiled
spring.

As he spoke, Kelly — having hesi-
tated just long enough to let Durkee
free his hand, although noting his
action — drew back with a jerk ; and
at the instant he drew back, his hand
whipping behind, Durkee fell upon
him like a bolt of lightning.

Ill

Kelly was a hard man and a
fighter; but the younger man, trim
and lithe, was a tiger, and in less than
two minutes he had him half throt-
tled and had his right hand in the
hold of the cuff he himself had worn.

He took Kelly's automatic from
the hip pocket and placed it upon his
own person and then, ruthlessly
bearing the stubborn, undaunted
bank robber down, made an exceed-
ingly rich haul from various parts of
Kelly's clothes — thousands of dollars
in notes of large denominations — all
of which he placed in his own pock-
ets, despite the other's vicious strug-
gling.

126

Bulling the Bulls

As soon as he had convinced him-
self that he had taken all the money
Kelly had, Durkee signaled the taxi
chauffeur to stop, and when the car
had come to a standstill at the curb
he opened the door and stepped out
into the late afternoon sunshine and
the atmosphere of fish and dirty wa-
ter.

"Kelly," said he with a grin, "I'fl
give the key to his nibs here and tell
him to unlock you at the North Sta-
tion. From there you may go any-
where you please."

"Who the blazes are you, any-
way?" demanded Kelly, after deliv-
ering a volley of vituperation — the
only effect of which was to make the
other man's grin broaden.

"See here, Kelly," said Durkee,
calmly, making no response to the
question, "you haven't any kick com-
ing. I got you through the line all
right, saved you from a lot of trouble,
and I know you got a lot of stuff
somewhere. I kept my word not to
squeal, and you can afford to pay.
So quit your growling."

"Well, who are you?"

"Really like to know?"

"Yes," returned Kelly with a sav-
age, almost frenzied growl.

"Well," said Durkee, smoothly,
with great gravity — mock, maddening
gravity — "I'll tell if you think it will
make you feel better. My name is
Ricker H. Tucker in real life. By
profession I am, like you yourself —
a bank robber; but an unfortunate
one, mediocre, and until two days
ago I was incarcerated in a New
Hampshire retreat. I had just
worked down to Worcester, and

there, as you know, forttfne brought
me face to face, side by side, with the
master of our craft — Aloysius Kelly
— fortune at the same time giving me
an opportunity to run the Boston
lookout and to fill an empty pocket.
I admire you, Kelly — I take off my
hat to you" — the tall, eagle-faced ras-
cal who had indulged himself in the
luxury of several truthful statements
took off his hat with an ironical bow
— "and as one who has done time, I
admiringly admit that you're the
better man, and — I thank you."

Durkee slammed the door, gave
the handcuff key to the chauffeur
and told him to drive to North Sta-
tion and there release Kelly. He was
sport enough to pay for the ride, too,
— with a bit to spare.

As the cab darted from the curb
with the frantic Kelly, he looked af-
ter it for a moment with a smile,
then, turning, walked swiftly back in
the way he had come.

That same night Mr. Durkee sat
smoking contentedly on the deck of a
barkentine passing the Graves en
route for Rio de Janeiro. He was
thinking of the stout man whom he
had helped as desired — the king of
bank robbers who had never served
a sentence, whose reputation he him-
self had that day saved — but was not
worrying about him or his welfare.
It was natural that he should think
of him, for he had secured from
brother Kelly the snug sum of
$15,000 plus. But mostly he was let-
ting his mind dwell virtuously upon
reform under comfortable conditions,
upon a life of strict obedience to the
law — at least while the money lasted.

The Best New Mystery Books

By Captain Frank Cunningham

• In this department THE- BLACK MASK will present every month brief reviews of
the best new books of detective and mystery stories, stories of the occult and stories of
adventure. Needless to say, the department will be conducted without fear or favor.
Only good books will be noticed. There will be absolutely no boosting in the interest
of publishers Every book mentioned may be bought at any bookstore. THE BLACK
MASK will NOT receive orders.

The Silver Bag, by Thomas Cobb.
Who owned the handbag left in the
apartment of a young English author?
And why was the author distracted?
And what was the purpose of the young
woman who caused so much trouble?
There is lots of fun in unraveling these
perplexing situations. If you like a
mystery story mixed with humor, this
plot will interest you.

The Red Seal, by Natalie Sumner
Lincoln. Unlike most mystery stories,
all clews that might lead the reader to
discover for himself the true culprit
are cleverly concealed. And so you are
kept guessing until the very end. Jim-
mie Turnbull, a bank cashier, is thought
to have been poisoned by a powerful
drug^. Each chapter brings to light
some evidence that changes the reader's
hunch as to the identity of the real
criminal.

Ill

The Eye of Zeitoon, by Talbot
Mundy. This is not, as the title might
suggest, a story about a precious jewel.
But it is a romantic tale of adventure
in Armenia. Zeitoon is an ancient

stronghold in the Armenian mountains,
which the Turks have never been able
to capture. The "Eye of Zeitoon" is
an Armenian patriot who does his best
to serve his country, and. guides three
soldiers of fortune into a land where
they believe adventures await them.
And getting there, they find they were
not mistaken.

Come-On Charley, by Thomas Ad-
dison. Charley is a shoe-clerk in a
small town. Just for the sake of play-
ing a practical joke, a lawyer tells him
that he has come into a fortune of two
million dollars, when the truth of the
matter is the fortune amounts to only
ten thousand dollars. But Charley goes
to New York with the idea of doing
startling things. What happens makes
a farcical romance, and if you like a
story full of good fun read the adven-
tures of Charley. .

* V

Blacksheep! Blacksheep ! by Mere-
dith Nicholson. No one likes to be
told in advance of the adventures of a
gentleman crook, and what happens to
him when he gets into a tight place.
"The Governor" is a strange sort of a
hero, who carries a pocket edition of

127

The Best New Mystery Books

Horace, "borrows" automobiles in
Ohio and Michigan, and has a philos-
ophy all his own concerning the busi-
ness of thieving. There is woven about
him humor, mystery, melodrama and
romance. And his adventures will
keep you smiling and thrilled.

Marching Sands, by Harold Lamb.
Captain Gray, a former United States
Army officer, learns that somewhere in
the center of Asia, in the Desert of
Gobi, is a lost race of white men. He
goes to find out for himself what this
mystery is, rescues a party of English
scientists, and has a great many exciting
adventures. This is a very entertaining
story, well told, and full of the atmos-
phere of the unknown Orient.

VII

Whispers, by Louis Dodge. A story
of a murder in a costume shop, and a
newspaper man who promises to solve
the problem in forty-eight hours. How
he makes good in spite of obstacles, and
an almost serious blunder on his part,
makes this story one that must be read
through before the book is laid down.
The descriptions of a disreputable lodg-
ing-house and the many types of men
who gather there give a new touch to
this most interesting tale.

VIII

Wyndham's Pal,' by Harold Bind-
loss. A story of the sea and the Car-
ibbean coast that creates the atmos-
phere of romance and adventure of
those days of pirates, lost treasure
and buccaneers. The hero plays for
big stakes, and enjoys the excitement
of the game for the game's sake. A
story out of the ordinary, and a
rattling good tale.

- IX

The Peculiar Major, by Keble
Howard. Suppose you had a ring, a
wishing-ring, that would bring you any-
thing you wanted, or give you the power
to do anything you desired. What
would you do? Would you set out to
rule the world ? Would you become the
richest man on earth? Or would you
merely start out to have a good time?
That's what the hero of this story did,
and his adventures make a story that
is well worth reading for the fun of the
thing.

X -.

The Scarred Chin, by Will Payne.
A story of adventure and mystery,
blackmail, spies and intrigue, with the
scene laid in Chicago. Situation piles
on situation until the very last page,
and then everything ends happily.

Fire of Youth, by Henry James
Forman. A thoroughly pleasing story,
with excitement, adventure, and a hero
who, having given away a family heir-
loom to an ex-comic opera singer who
jilts him, follows her to Europe to get
it back. But before he comes home
again he has learned many lessons, not
the least of which being that there are
many wonderful things in life besides
ex-comic opera singers.

XII

The Brtdge of Time, by William
Henry Warner. This is a story of re-
incarnation and the occult. An ancient
Egyptian prince, by means of an oc-
cult power of the High Priest, finds
himself suddenly transported to this
modern civilization. There is much
fun and satire in his impressions of
our complicated customs and man-
ners.

ADVERTISING

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pEMOVo

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THE REMOVO CO.

Dept. P Syracuse, N. Y.

Makers of Carmichacl's Gray Hoir Restorer. Used
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REDUCE YOUR

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Don't Wear a Truss

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WRITE THE WORDS FOR A SONG

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CHESTER MUSIC CO.

920 So. Mlchlcan Awnm. D»pt. 267 CHIC AGO

You Write the Words for a Song —

We write the music, publish anil secure a copyright.
Submit txjems on any subject. Do not let another day
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THE METROPOLITAN STUDIOS

914 So. Michigan Ave. Dept. 178 Chicago, HI.

Your Face is
Your Fortune

The worlds prat est facia I remedy wi 1 Ire*
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IF YOUR blood is impure, if you have

Ei moles, freckles, wrinklea, black-
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The prescription was first used 35 years aao by Dr. Campbell, and he
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Mailed in plain cover on receipt of 50c and $1.00 from
RICHARD FINK CO. Dept. 90. J°6 Broadway. New York City
Every Druggist can tot this remedy for you ' rom his wholesale dealer.

MAKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU

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develop n winning personality, learn to
know people as they are. Send 5 cents
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In an.wtring advertisements, please mention THE PARISIENNE TRIO

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* * *

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In answering advertisement*, pleate mention THE PARISIENNE TRIO

ADVERTISING

The Boss of The Ranch Must
Be A Man of Blood and Iron —

The Kind of Man Nuxated Iron Helps Make

By Building Red Blood,
Strength and Endurance

Hardened by the rigors of life on the
plains, living for days in his saddle, his
strength, courage and endurance put a thou-
sand times to the most severe tests, the Boss
of the Range daily proves himself every
inch a man — a man of blood and iron. He
has won his spurs by countless dar-
ing feats, perfect calmness in the
face of danger, tireless energy and
alertness, untold deeds of action,
force and power. When you see
him with his men on the range you
know he's boss and what he says
goes. But the rugged, outdoor life
of the ranchman which helps to
keep his blood rich in strength-
giving iron is denied many a man whose indoor
existence, hard work and worries sap his ener-
gies and rob the iron from his blood. It is

You Know
He's Boss—
What He
Jays Goes"

gtcs aiiu ruu liic uuu uuuj uw w»vv u « lv *• x
such men who need sustaining, health-building /
help of organic iron — Nuxated Iron — to in- ^v. 1

help ot organic

crease the oxygen-carrying power of their
blood and thereby aid in restoring wasted
tissue, strengthening their nerves and giving
greater power and endurance. Nuxated Iron
is now used by over three million people an-
nually as a tonic, strength and blood-builder.

"There are countless numbers of men today
who at 40 are broken in health and steadily
gying downward to physical and mental decay
simply because they are allowing worry, over-
work, nervous strain, dissipation and occupa-
tional poisons to sap the iron from their blood
and destroy its power to change fond into
living tissue, muscle and brain," says Dr. John
J. Van Home, formerly Medical Inspector
and Clinical Physician on the Board of Health
of New York City. "Yet there are thousands
of such men who undergo a most remarkable
transformation the moment they get plenty of
the right kind of iron into their blood to give
increased energy and endurance. Their
imagined ills are forgotten, they gain physical
poise and fitness, mental alertness and greater
power to combat obstacles and withstand severe
strains. To help build stronger, healthier men

and women, better able physically, to meet the
problems of everyday life, I believe that physi-
cians should, at every opportunity prescribe
organic iron — Nuxated Iron — for in my ex-
perience it is one of the best tonic and red
blood builders known to medical science."

If you arc not strong or well you owe it to
yourself to make the following test: Sec how long
you can work or how far you ran walk without
hecoming tired. Next take two five-grain tahlcts
of Nuxated Iron three limes per day, after meals,
for two weeks. Then test your strength again and
see for yourself how much you have gained. Many
an athlete or prize fighter has won the day simply
because he knew the secret of great strength and
endurance, which comes from having plenty of iron
in the blood, while many another has gone down to
inglorious defeat simply for lack of iron.

Manufacturers' Note: Nuxated Iron, which is pre-
scrihrd anil recommended b> physicians is not a secret
remedy, hut one which is well known to druggists. I n-
likc the older Inornate iron product! it is easily assimi-
lated, docs not injure the teeth, make them Mack nor
upset the stomach. The manufacturers guarantee success-
ful and entirely satisfactory results to every nurchascr or
they will refund your money. It is dispensed in this city
by all miod driiRnists. .

In answering advertisement, please mention THE PARIS1ENNE TRIO

ADVERTISING

No More Wrinkles

BEAUTIFUL FIGURE

Superfluous Hair Vanishes Like
Magic. Eyel ashe s Beautified

Pimples and Blackheads Removed Forever

L«t 'Hit woman iwid >«iil frer, everything the nireri. and lo-aulify
juur flee and Turin uuirklv

.•Wil *fc aaaT**?*-^ ' *

Tliln rlever woman tin » not a wrinkle nnnn her face-; the hai nor
fnrttxl a HiarYCloUfl, altnide incttiod wldrti hrouirlit a Wonderful ehatitfi
In her faro in • thwle nlKhl. I ■ mnnvlnn wrinkle* anil ^ ■ : ■

Ing Urn flKuif. Iirr method I* truly wonderfully rapid.

Sli* made, i.. i - if i'.. woman aho l« today and hroiighl about i' ■■
wonderful cliaiiBt« In her ahpeurnnrn In ■ ie«rel imd plri'tinl manner
Her niiii|tlr \h>n ii m rlvr anil fair a* that of a rlillil. Hint ttirtHHl lior
• rranny tlRiiin Into a beautiful am) wr1M*v»|op«d form She hail tfiln.
grrauny eye U»h.-i uuil eyebrow*, whleh nuild aramly hi* tern. and ahr
mailn iImmii limit. thick niiil ("i by hrr own method .,n.i re-
moved mury blackhead ami (dinnl* from her far* In a *liig> tilKhl

NiilhliiM la Ukrn Into the •ininarli. no ■ i niasiaKe, no harm-
ful |da«ter«. fin worthies! crrama.

By hrr in-w i>n-rv-<,. «hr remove* wrinkles ami drveloni the wholi*
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It W iliiii.ly aatoiihhlns tin* hundred* of wnmrn who writ* In n>-
ftardliuf Um MiMUtnUl refUltl from il. i n#N hi-aiily treniior-nl
which l< ln-autlfylnK Ihelr far* ami form after liemity doctors and other
method* failed She hai ihi.uianiln of leltn. itn file like the following

Mra. M U H Alhln. Ml*', writes: "I ha.c u»rd your beauty
treatment wllh wonderful auccera. I have not a wrinkle on my
faca now ami It la »\m> Im ■:■ .... my runiidei Inn. which ha» al-
wavi trmihlM DM Willi pURpjtl and hhirklu-aiK My We-lirhl Waa

112 i I tafOft taklnu ytKU UVMaHQl ami now I ui'inh 117. a

a*aln nf i-nind*. YoUI tn-atini'iit It a God land In all thin
woman. 1 am m Kratrful you nnty men um- my letter if ynii with. "

Tliti valuable new beauty book which Madame Clare la acndlmc
fn-e |0 IhminainU Of women In cvrlnlhl) a hh-vudnK U) womm,

All our reader* ahoiild write her ai mire and alii* will tell you.
absolutely fren. altoiit Imt varhniit new iHHily trixitiuiaita aiid will
a) nw our readers:

How to remove wrlnklei In 8 houri:
How to d«v«lnp ihr ftourc:

How to make lonu, thick eyalathet and eyebrowi;
How to remove auperfluuut hair;
How to remove blackheadi, plmplee and freckle*;
How to remove dark clrelei under the eye«:
How to quickly remove double chin:

How to build up lunken cheekt and add fle«h to the body;
How to darken gray hair and atop hnlr falllno:
How to ttop forever penplrallon odor.

Pimiily MMlW y"«r letter lo BtftP riare, Suite ASST. 5311
MlrhUan A*r.. ChlraiP). HI., and mnt Mid any money, heemuae
tiartlrillara ar» Troo. aa thin rharmlnff M-ninan la doing her utmost
to heiirfH «lrl. or women hi ne-d of teeret Infiirmatlun whleh will add
to tltulr tioatily and liiakn Ufa ftntUt and lotrllrr In every way.

WRITE SONG POEMS

I have absolutely the best proposition to offer you. I
have written songs that were sung by AL Jolson.
Geo. " Hoiley-bOy " Evans, Harry Fox and Yansci
Dolly and many other stars. Write me immediately.

RAY HIBBELER.D 116, 4040 Diclcciu Ave. .Chicago

Send No Money!

Ladies' Solitaire MQA

EXAMINATION FREE I MjM
10 MONTHS TO PAY M fjli

FIRST, then if
yuu decide tO
Keep it pay only
S2.00. Buying
direct asHurrs
you the Rock
Bottom Price. A
perfectly cut liluc-wliit
Diamond in lailies' solid
fold Betting at only $2.80
a month!

Take Advantage
nf this amaxlng offer to-day.
YOt'Il MO.NKV BACK 1/ vum
uir not mtinfleti. So Stttuity
— So Hr4 Tap€.

A POSTAL BRINGS YOU THE GREATEST DIAMOND
WATCH AND JEWELRY BOOK EVER PUBLISHED

WheUier >"U order ihl« ring oi not, h>i in .md you thi-
Do Luxe Cataluy FREE, cuiitainiim d.M-tii Urn..- qJ tU*i
^\.llrtlf^. : l .x . . ... - - 1 ..-I nilMjr aitlrlca of jowclty. Kveryihlnu
MM mi Kit HE K\AM1NATIUN Addrna Dept. 39-P.

Capital $1,000,000

"the house of quality"

LW-SWEET INC.

1650-1660 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.

TABLETS

Headaches
Neuralgias
Colds and La Grippe

Women's Aches and Ills
Rheumatic and Sciatic Pains

Ask Your Druggist for A'K Tablets

(If he cannot supply yon, write us)

Small Sixe

lOc

Dozen Size

25c

See Monogram Jf^ on the Genuine

The AatiklBoU Remedy Comp.nr. St. Loou. Mo.

Write for Free Samples

In answering advertisements, please

mention THE PARISIENNE TRIO

Send the Coupon

-We'll send you

a Lachnite

No.7A14lO

TfcU .oltd «»|d aolltaW u>
tfi» mul ["'[•ulftr la.li-*'
ni» in Ida - i I Haau
tltulty Itntati*.!. Iha *a.
•nra of «ih.J taal* S#t-
Una • n*Bhln« I a. hnH •
(•ftm -. i*i ■ » about en>
rant.

I»rlc« *1«.73

Dspiitil 4.7S

Monthly ... 3.50

No.7A1504

Thta aelld - ■ Hnjt U

■ Fiaiiail and flmnbul b>

■ ,"-1. N« final At rr. -

faahtnnabla rin« fuM b*
nada. II la wi'h a

brilliant 1.-'!. - , . t.

waltfhln* abuut 1 I cant.

PHc« S1B.7B

Dapoalt 4.75
Monthly 2 SO

CiEND NO MONEY. Just send us your name and address and we
i) will send you. prepaid, on 10 days' trial, a genuine Lachnite Gem

mounted in a solid gold ring. These sparkling gems have ihe eternal fire of diamonds.
Their brilliance and hardness are guaranteed forever. We want you to select one of the
rings from this advertisement and wear it ten full days at our expense. Then, if yon can
tell it from a diamond, send it back. Over 150,000 people have accepted this offer— and have
found a way to own exquisite jewelry at a trilling cost.

Pay As You Wish

When the ring comes just make the first small deposit ($4.75) with Ihe postman. This is only a
deposit. It is not a payment. The money is still yours. Put the ring on your finger and wear it everywhere for ten
lull days. Then if you decide to keep it, pay the balance at the rate of $2 50 a month without interest. But if.
daring the trial, you decide to scad the Lachnite back, your depo&it will be refunded instantly. Yuu run no risk.

Send the Coupom

•Vmd to* prapaJd # Hir.a aa> *aa «. M

•ar'arraa trial. Whao 11 "••»•• 1 % T \ »i J T *T

E&X&iL&'i&ixrzu * V Don t send us a penny. Just put your nam

~ ■ : . „ ,L until U,. taWilm »~» 111 f, « . ■« . •

|; •« a moil lb until tft- balan

Don't send us a penny. Just put your name
and address in the coupon and tell us which

ring you prefer. Be sure to send us your finger size. To
•„ net it cut a strip of paper that will just mee. around the
*^ middle knuckle of your ring finger. Send the coupon
now. You will be under no obligations to buy.

v Harold Lachman Co. &Z,15&5&

rilABm IMNi-|< PBFS5. NtW YORK

110-Pisce

Set

Amazing value. Record-

1/OWn breaking offer. In each
piece the highest type of

color harmony and exquisite design has been at-
tained. Set is in popular Colonial shape, decorated
with Bluebird design, blending perfectly with the

pink. lavender and green flow. ro. Ixm*ly blue bordering
cn ea-h pie.:e. Eneh pkeft ii flrrd in the b!««* and gwir-
anU l nut f<i ehwck or eraxt. That "pi end id Old Knpltah
ftm*h ii applied in the clay before firing, Riving eaeh pice*
tbn (Inltih of rii h r"owflske while. This wonderful act ran
be jrou« for only fl.Ofl down hjv, th^n 13.0" monthly. Price,
in bII. V-Z.%. Complete mitinfm-tlo

Famous
Bluebird Design

A Complete Service— 110 Pieces

ThU .ptmrild »h evnnUt* of 17 dinner plat". * loehaa; U
late*. ? 1-2 lorhea; ll.^sap* •wape. 11-2 inrnea:
r«ra. 6 t -2 inrh«'»- 12' ip»; 12 awm: 12 oaTmral
■baa. 12bi«aii and bun >e plalea.fi toehee: 1 p!a't*r.

ilia-urn, •> hflDfl.

11 1-2 Inch**: 1

, 7 1-2 loehrs: i;.»up* aotipa. 11-2 lneb>

12 fruit Mar -
<li»heii,«(oeL._.

platter. 12 3-4 .nrlin; I eorered wrgetabla
_.. 1 i r.l t»p. n vr,'etabli> dlah. V I •? tarnee. 1
.._j>i»bip dun. S 1-2 Ineln-". 1 rr»*y b*a'; 1 rr««r
b«»l eland; 1 btwl. 1 pint: I eu* «r tx:«l and rneer, '2plecee>.
1 <-""am pti^hrr; I pkfcl*di»h: bni(« dUh. 7 1-2 Irtchr-
TTila aatla on* thai wul ad '
room. IvUh ordinary eari
•hipped, about 100 pvuuda.

Cfdar py No. C613SA. Send Si .00 with ortfar,
J3.00 monthly, Pr.ee Ol 1 10 pi- cel. U2.VS.
No C. O. 0. No out >uni lor caeh.

one that will add (on? and beau' 7 to ani dmiBjt
It *01 laat a Ufctlme, WalaTbi

Stmus&Schram. Dept. 1696 W.35thSt., Chicago

F.oHoae.lfindll.Ort. SMn «p*-lft( a-l-rrtU*^ 110-ploea nir.et.lr4
-- \ Lrep Ih. art I

□ I10-P.t<e Blubird Diaaar S.t No, G6I33A, W2.95.

Nmm*

Strttt. RT.D. Z
or Box No D

i iruarantci

" Small amount down, easy payments on all articles in

J our big bargain catalog. 30 days' trial — money back ii Dot
■ satisfied. Nc discoun* .'or cash; no C. O. D.

I Send the Coupon

fSSt

-I)

0#e« Slat.

Jyau .am O'.lr '.ha cataloi. eul X In Ih. nro»*r ho» l>»t™ I
3F»MntR.uSl«B.Jt-JrTL.a«-i.WiM' t ail*«'.0

along with $1.00 to us now. Have this 110 piece dinner

set shipped on 30 days trial. We will also send our big Bargain
C.tnloff ll'tinit thoumindf of amazing bargain). Only B6ma11 lint payment
■nil balance in monthly payments for anything you want. Sen. I coupon below

Straus & Schram, ^WSSP

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